


Five Times Mike and Peter Had Guests…and One Time They Had Some Time to Themselves

by Lauren_StDavid



Series: Early Beechwood [4]
Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Allhallowtide, Chicks making out, Early Days, Explicit Sexual Content, Illnesses, Jealousy, Light BDSM, M/M, Mild Angst, Monkees in drag, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 88,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26421781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauren_StDavid/pseuds/Lauren_StDavid
Summary: Elements of their rl personalities have seeped in.Huge thanks to the Sunshine Factory website https://monkees.coolcherrycream.com/ for all the fantastic info and pictures! I couldn't have written any of these fics without that lovely treasure trove to mine.As usual, this started out from an idea from 70mtt, who especially wanted the first part and provided a ton of suggestions for the whole thing. This fic is sort of about nothing, just their day-to-day lives.The concept of 'guests' is quite loose.
Relationships: Mike Nesmith/Peter Tork
Series: Early Beechwood [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1466542
Comments: 146
Kudos: 31





	1. August, 1965

**Author's Note:**

> Elements of their rl personalities have seeped in.
> 
> Huge thanks to the Sunshine Factory website https://monkees.coolcherrycream.com/ for all the fantastic info and pictures! I couldn't have written any of these fics without that lovely treasure trove to mine.
> 
> As usual, this started out from an idea from 70mtt, who especially wanted the first part and provided a ton of suggestions for the whole thing. This fic is sort of about nothing, just their day-to-day lives.
> 
> The concept of 'guests' is quite loose.

Mike didn’t know why he bothered looking in the ice box for fruit juice when he knew they didn’t have any, any more than they had milk, say, but he did the pull, peer, sigh, and shut part of his morning routine anyway, just because. The tempo and energy of it told him he was in a mellow mood. When he was uptight, it was more of a yank, rattle, tsk, and slam. Well, hip-slam—the appliance was too temperamental to make a full-frontal assault on. It suffered enough raids as it was.

Fine. Micky would have to have the packet drink mix stuff with and for his breakfast. Which meant stretch, open, fish, grab at the cupboard instead. Then rip, tip, fill, stir. Huh. And Mike’s slogans never won anything, try as he might by entering every contest he saw. Swishing the spoon in the glass jug and watching the water turn orange as the crystals dissolved was kind of calming and yet kind of science experiment-like: was that why Micky liked the stuff? Or had liking the stuff turned him on to that kind of science experiment in the first place?

“Guess we’ll never know,” Mike said to no-one, just to break up the silence. “And rip, tip, fill, stir’s a better slogan that the one they got, you ask me. ‘Make friends with Kool-Aid’…” He paused, because this was where Micky usually poked a head out of the upstairs bedroom to croak out the answering, “Make Kool-Aid with friends,” and slide down the banister, part of the routine when Mike was on breakfast duties.

Mike looked up and cursed, remembering Micky wasn’t in. How could he have forgotten, when he’d had such a good night’s sleep, last night and a couple of nights before, alone in the bedroom, without the Los Angeles Leopard’s nightly prowling around and trying to rope Mike in on whatever happened to be going through his head? Mike glared at the glass pitcher of chemicals and dye as though it were to blame. Well, he wasn’t about to waste it.

“Hey.”

Mike jumped at Peter’s voice behind him and spun around.

“I rinsed off!” Peter, back from early surfing, raised his arms.

Pete’s tone and expression told Mike he must still be glowering. He shook his head at Pete— _Peter_ –to tell him it wasn’t because of him. Peter missed his cue: he was doing a slow twirl, displaying his body for Mike. _What?_ No—for Mike to check he wasn’t ‘bringin’ home half the goddamn beach’, as the other three said when doing their impersonation of him, which he thought sounded nothing like him but oddly like his Uncle Charles.

And there sure was a lot of Peter to check out, with him standing there like posing some model, arms, legs and chest glowing golden, easy to see, in those well, _abbreviated_ was putting it politely, swim trunks.

“Are—” _n’t those too small?_ Mike bit back. “Nothing,” he finished, turning his glower, or glare, or stare into a neutral breakfast-time smile and going back to his food-gathering, heading to the cupboard for cereal and the top cupboard for bowls.

“Ah.” Peter tapped the jug in understanding. He bent to draw the lopsided, winky-eyed face of the drinks company mascot in the condensation on the jug’s fat-bellied side, getting the mascot’s slightly crazed-looking grin perfect. It…kinda looked like Micky, Mike thought, not for the first time. ‘“A five-cent package makes two quarts,’” Peter quoted.

‘“Oh, yeah,’” Mike finished, grinning for real now, as was Peter.

“You forgot he wasn’t here.” Peter nodded. “And I’m guessing we’ve all got to drink this?”

Mike gave a _you know it_ tilt of his head as he set out three—not four—plastic beakers, the orange one nearest Peter. He sliced up the two apples and one banana into a plastic dish, shaking the fruit segments to make them look more than there were, and raised an eyebrow at Peter. At his “Please,” Mike spooned some into a bowl for him.

“Thanks.” Peter took up a spoon.

“You got nice manners,” Mike commented without thinking, feeling stupid immediately after.

“Thanks!” Peter’s sunny smile was genuine, casting no dark light on Mike. He shook a little cereal onto his fruit pieces and added Kool-Aid. “ _Et voilà_ , one Micky Breakfast Special.”

Mike, pouring coffee, had to laugh. “That’d be the deluxe healthy version. And he pronounces it ‘viola’.”

“And sometimes ‘violin’.” Peter grinned.

Mike took his seat. “There’s no tea,” he told Peter, to explain him not bringing Peter a hot drink. “And you—”

“Try to avoid coffee, umm. I’ve been thinking about starting growing plants for tea.” Peter cast a look at the windowsill. Mike had thought tea was grown in India or China. Maybe LA was as hot as Assam or Lapsang Souchong or whatever other name he’d noticed on boxes or cannisters. In the absence of any plant he could make into tea, Peter poured himself some packet drink and winced on tasting it.

“Sorry,” Mike proffered, meaning it. He didn’t like seeing Peter discomforted. “I forgot he was away, yeah. Yeah, he’s been gone for a few days, so I should be used to it, right?”

“No one’s perfect, just as no one says you have to be infallible,” came Peter’s gentle reply.

“Yeah, well.” Mike wondered what packet mix orange tasted like in coffee, but wasn’t curious enough about it to risk possibly ruining a cup of java. One difference between him and that loon by the name of Micky…who Mike was missing. “I kinda didn’t notice over the weekend because he’s sometimes at his mom’s, you know? And he stays over till Monday, sometimes, so…”

“And he’s in bed late on Tuesdays, recovering,” Peter agreed. He looked around and Mike rose to get the radio from the counter for him. “Thanks.”

Mike twitched the calendar from its hook while he was on his feet and brought it back to read over the what, where, and who of life in the pad. It was Micky’s turn to work, according to their system of taking turns to bring in cash when needed—which was pretty much all the time.

“Micky was awful mysterious about this job,” he mused. “Guess it’s something that needs confidentiality. Some movie that’s still under wraps or secret or… Oh God.” _Secret clandestine movie…_ “You don’t think—”

“That he’s shooting a porno? No. Of course not.” Peter looked up from tuning the radio, his dimpled smile sunny-bright. “He’d have been body-building and tanning a bit more if he was shooting a porno.”

“How… No, you know what? Don’t answer.” Mike concentrated instead on pouring packet orange drink into his helping of cereal, in honor of the absent Micky. Who was _not_ engaged in filming a movie that involved very few clothes, very cheesy dialogue, and an awful punning title. _Please, God._

That Peter had followed the direction of his thoughts came as no surprise to Mike. He was used by now to that easy spread of thoughts from one to another of them, like…a knife buttering hot toast, almost. God, he wished they had bread. He focused on what they did have. Ah, okay, so like…packet mix drink diffusing through water. And Peter’s favorite color was orange.

“You’re worried about Micky?” Peter asked.

“Oh, no. Well, no more than usual,” Mike admitted. “I know. You don’t have to say it.” _Or make clucking noises when I’m mother henning._ No, Peter didn’t do that. “If I think about it, I guess he was being cagey about this job because it’s not exactly the kind or the level of work he wants to be doing, right? Like that time he said he’d gotten a slot at Dino’s Lodge—”

“And it was as a parking valet.” Peter nodded. “Hence he didn’t want us to go see him.”

“Not that we can afford to eat there. So you think if we turn up where he said he’d be working, he’ll be, I don’t know, in the coat check?”

“No. The coat check wouldn’t pay enough for him to pay off the Monkeemobile.”

Mike took a too-big slurp of coffee, filling his mouth to stop him making a barbed reply. He was still sore over the loss of his old Ford, given away so blithely by Micky in part exchange for the customized Pontiac that was now their only car. And Peter, so equable, so hippie, whose Oldsmobile he’d made communal anyway, hadn’t been quite so _all property is theft, man_ about his Woodie Wagon being handed over too.

“Still think you were right to insist he pay off the remainder himself, instead of it coming from the household kitty?”

Was Peter deliberately provoking him? Mike swallowed his gulp and took a deep breath in then out, meaning he could give Peter a sharp nod in reply, rather than a sharp retort. Huh. Maybe he was getting desensitized to it? Like poking a sore tooth. No; that wasn’t right, was it? “Good waves?” he asked, instead, jerking his head toward the picture window and the beach and ocean beyond, Peter’s natural habitat.

“Umm. High and tight,” Peter answered, making Mike laugh.

“It has another meaning, in the military,” he explained. “One you wouldn’t like.” Peter would never cut his hair short, Mike didn’t think.

“Not much I do like about the military,” came Peter’s retort, and he was up and out of his chair before Mike could explain about it being the name for the buzzed-short haircuts. Oh, he’d heard the postman.

“Anything?” Mike asked, having to repeat himself when Peter, back to Mike, was absorbed in shuffling through the mail. “Pete?” It wasn’t his turn to bring in the mail. Peter was kinda secretive, sometimes.

“Not much today…” Peter took his place and dropped two bills into the no-man’s land of the middle of the table. He placed a letter for Mike closer to him, and retained a postcard for himself. Most likely from his brother. They sent each other jokey, often hand-drawn cards…or could be a picture postcard of Harmonica, following their short visit there this summer. Harmonica, where Peter had spent a fair amount of time with that lady in waiting, in her cat suit…

A half-grunt, half-groan and the downstairs bedroom door hitting the wall as it was elbowed open announced Davy was up and about. Despite the black eye mask he still wore stretched across his face, he held a hand over his eyes too as he shuffled toward them. Another grunt and him holding out his hand in a cup shape got Peter pouring juice from the jug into the smaller beaker Davy used and slotting it into his hand for him. Davy winced on tasting it, but drank it down, Peter taking the plastic cup from him after. Davy gave another grunt and pointed over his shoulder then down at the table before turning and heading to the bathroom. Peter, fluent in morning-Davy-speak, went to the kettle to get Davy’s mug of tea ready and waiting for him.

“Sure got you well trained,” Mike commented. He took up his letter. It was the shortest of notes, just a line…from the manager of the Basement club in Mid-Town, just off Santa Monica Boulevard, confirming that yes, the Monkees could audition for him, with a view to either a few nights’ residency or a weekly spot, depending. _Yes!_ He held the white half-sheet of paper tight, letting the news flow into him, through him.

This was good. Very good. They’d ace the audition and get it, he knew. He’d ensure it. Had been ensuring it, all the practice, all the new songs, all the gigs and dates… Mid-Town, up from Downtown Santa Monica, and nearer to the Strip, their dream. Their goal. Their destination. He checked the letter again.

Letter. Normally business like this would have been conducted over the phone, but theirs hadn’t been…connected recently, and he’d missed the Basement’s manager and had to leave messages every time he’d called from a payphone. Maybe this was just the guy wanting him off his back, but Mike didn’t care. The phone was back on, sort of, as of yesterday, but Mike thought he’d go over there, to the club, set the audition up, then when it was firm, tell the others. No point saying anything now. They should save their energy, their focus, their vibes, for when it was definite.

He folded the letter away like he was tucking the news away, for him to think on, to digest.

“I said, he’s not a morning person,” Peter repeated, digging his spoon into Mike’s bowl of fruit over his shoulder and helping himself to the last slice of banana. His hand was gone before Mike could slap it away. Well, he had been slow to react. Pad rules decreed that was a fair theft. “We all have different strengths. Different abilities.”

“True.” He eyed Peter, who’d gone for his acoustic. Mike kept meaning to time him, see how long he could go without an instrument in his hands. “Say, between Davy’s eye mask, and Micky’s hairnet, and Davy’s beauty masks and Micky’s retainer…do you ever feel like the most normal person around?”

Peter, leaning against the couch, his ass propped on its top, played a few chords, his head on one side, considering. “Rarely,” he finally answered.

“What you doing today?” Mike asked.

“Piano lesson.”

“Yeah? Thought you already knew how to play piano?”

“Ha-ha.”

Mike didn’t know where Peter got the ping-pong ball from, but he flicked it Mike’s way with a swiftness and accuracy that spoke of practice. Mike, not having grown up with brothers, still dodged missiles just a tad too late.

“Getting better,” Peter commented. “I’m teaching the Ferreiras’ youngest, which means lunch too and yes, I’ll bring back some of whatever they give me. What about you? Song writing?”

Mike studied his face for a second, just to see if there was any side to Peter’s question. Did he, or any of the others, think Mike’s songs took precedence? That Mike pushed himself to the fore too much? Any of them were welcome to pitch in with songs. Some of them might make the cut—

“Michael?” Peter’s tone and look were steady, calm, interested.

Mike breathed out. “Might do some song _thinking_. While I do some fixing. Repairs. Gonna get up on the roof with Micky away—you know what he’s like—see if I can find the spots making the problems in the ceilings and windows up there.”

“Oi.” Davy, returning from his first visit to the bathroom that morning—his necessity visit, not his vanity visit—made his presence felt. He slumped into his seat and raised an eyebrow for his tea. “Do not start any hammering and or banging about in general until I’m out of here.”

“Oh yeah? Whatcha gonna do about it iffen I do, Tiny?” Mike asked.

“You’ll see, Skinny,” came darkly from around Davy’s mug. “Or rather, you won’t, until it hits you.”

Mike didn’t understand that any more than he did any of Davy’s vague threats, but it had him grinning. He was still in a good mood later as he prepared to start his maintenance, and not just because of the news from the Basement. Huh, Basement and roof in the space of an hour.

No, living here put him to smiling. Oh, not the poorly maintained, badly furnished pad itself, but the four of them, four very different personalities, with their different strengths and different abilities, as Peter had said. And they’d been here a year now, weaving bonds, laying down a groove, as Peter might say. Peter said a lot. Or…Mike recalled a lot of what he said. Hung on to it. But it was good that they’d all settled together. Like that game with the silly name where you tipped a whole bundle of sticks into a bunch, to make whatever random pattern they fell into, loose but all connected. All touching. Then you had to remove one from the heap without disturbing any of the others. Hard to do. Go one, go at least three more.

“It’s called pick-a-stick,” Mike muttered, checking what sealant they had. The name by which _he_ knew the game was the right one. “It ain’t jackstraws, nor spillikins and no _way_ is it _Mikado_!” Like his word was law. Iffen he was the leader, the others were stepping up as close deputies, finding work, finding gigs, being responsible. _Self-reliant._ He didn’t feel so much that everything was on his shoulders, that things— _them_ —sank or swum with him, these days. He was in the garage, so when he realized that the noise was the phone ringing, it took him a few seconds to get back into the den, find it, and answer it.

“…Monica-ca Hsssptal,” he made out through the buzzes and clicks: their phone wasn’t exactly… _officially_ reconnected and it made calls into the world’s worst game of well, broken telephone. Wait. Did the woman say—

“Santa Monica Hospital? Here, in Mid-Town?” What? Oh, one of the others, messing about? _Please, God._ “What’s this in reference to?”

“Mr. M’l Nesmith?”

He nodded. Figured that’d do.

“Collecting a Mr. M—”

“Micky Dolenz,” he said with her, that tender green shoot of hope that this was a put-on pulled up by the roots. Of course. Had to be. He sank to the floor.

“P’tinggg you through-ough now,” the disembodied voice continued.

“Through? I thought _you_ were the Santa Monica Hospital?”

“You’re through to the Santa Monica Medical Center, part of the UCLA Medical School,” came a different voice, snooty, refined.

“Not the Santa Monica Hospital?” Mike felt confused and weak enough himself to need one.

“We have nothing to do with the hospital side, the treatment section.” The woman’s sniff of disdain was audible.

“I ain’t sure that’s better?” Mike…wasn’t sure of anything. “It’s about picking up—”

“Micky Dolenz.” The sigh came across loud and clear this time.

Her knowing that could just be a sign of efficiency? Yeah, he’d pretend to believe that. Mike tried to put the pieces together. Micky was in a Medical School, famous for research and teaching. He’d hardly be there for studying. Well, not _to_ study…

Mick had said only recently that he intended to leave his body to science—that way he’d be guaranteed some action from cute nurses feeling him up. “Good idea,” Davy had replied. “Anyone who gets to work on that body’ll get a lot of practice with microscopes...trying to find the muscles on it.” Oh, of _course_. Davy!

“Tiny, this some sorta joke?” Mike demanded.

“We don’t ‘joke’, sir. Michael Nesmith is Micky Dolenz’s nominated person.”

“Nominated for what?”

“Next of kin.”

“Then why not _say_ next of kin?” Mike yelped, grasping the phone cord in his fist.

“Because we don’t like to alarm people here at the Infectious Diseases Unit,” came in a condescending tone.

“Well I’m alarmed _now_!” Mike cried, his fist tightening. “Wait. Did you say _Infectious Diseases_?”

“As I said, there’s no reason for alarm.”

“And the more you say that, the more alarmed I'm getting! Infectious— is Micky _sick_?”

“Sir, this is a residential center. An Experimental Unit—” was all he learned before the line went dead. He’d pulled the cord from both the receiver and the wall in his agitation.

 _Experimental Unit. Experimental Unit._ The words beat through his head as he drove to 16th Street, with _Infectious Diseases_ trying to snake into the gaps. _Infectious Diseases Experimental Unit_ …

And how, he discovered on arrival.

“I thought you didn’t like to alarm people?” he cried, once he’d finally made it into the Reception. “You took my temperature and blood pressure, you swabbed my mouth, my nose, my ears and under my, well, you know what you did, and now you got me all swaddled in a paper gown, with a paper nose and mouth mask, paper hat, and paper shoes, like a cut-price mummy? And for what, to sit and wait?”

“There’s magazines on that table, sir,” replied the same snooty voice as had been on the phone, unless there were a passle of Receptionists all the same…like it was one of the experiments.

Mike picked up the top one, to find it was the _Journal_ _of_ _the_ _Infectious_ _Diseases Society of America_. Under it was the _Journal_ _of the_ _Pediatric_ _Infectious_ _Diseases Society_ and under that the _Canadian Journal of Infectious Diseases and Medical Microbiology_. “They sure love their work here,” he muttered, trying not to scratch on seeing the pictures of rashes and boils and blisters. He peered around instead. Various corridors led from this room, closed off by doors that had words on them he didn’t know. _Epidemic parotitis._ _Rubella. Varicella zoster._

 _MD_ was written on another, and such was Mike’s confusion he supposed it stood for Micky Dolenz. When a white-coated figure, stethoscope swinging, walked through it, he felt foolish. ’Course. _MD_ stood for Mad Doctors.

“Oh, dang it, Lucy!” Mike cried. That was what his cousin had told him the medical abbreviation meant, when they were kids, because all physicians were crazy, and it’d stuck, all through his childhood and into adulthood, he now knew. “Doctors ain’t all mad.” He caught the Receptionist’s eye. “Oh, no, ma’am, I’m not talking to myself about people being crazy. I was talking to my cousin, Lucy. She’s not here, of course but—” _Yeah._

He heaved in a breath for another go at it. “I can ex— _Micky!_ What the— You okay? You ain’t been selling your blood, boy?” he demanded, when Micky, paler, maybe thinner, was led out by a white-coated man and white-uniformed woman. He had a paper mask on too but had drawn a huge smile on it, as lopsided as the one Peter had traced earlier.

“Hi, Mikey. No. I wouldn’t sell my blood.”

Mike parsed the sentence, listening like Peter might to each beat, each note, and the spaces between them. “Or anything else?”

“Like…?”

Mike dipped his gaze down. Down to Micky’s waist and then a little lower. Then waited.

“No!” Micky covered his crotch with his hands. “ _Jesus_ , Mike!”

“I didn’t mean…” Mike, having no idea what Micky thought he’d meant or what _Micky_ meant, gave up on that one. “Then what in tarnation are you _doing_ here?”

“Oh! They inject you and see if you get sick and I didn’t!”

The kid sounded he thought he should get a dang medal. Peter should be here, Mike thought. To deal with this. Not just because Mike, well, kinda liked hanging out with him. “ _Inject_ you?”

“We vaccinate,” the physician who’d come with Micky interrupted, making Mike swing around to him.

“Testing new vaccines. Their potency, celerity, efficacy…” the nurse chipped in, batting her lashes at the doctor.

“For epidemic parotitis, rubella, and varicella zoster,” the doctor finished. They made a good double act.

“Oh. I see,” Mike replied. He didn’t. Nor did he know what they were. Could’ve been tropical diseases for all he knew, for all that the MD, a slightly irritated note in his voice, said that Micky must have had them when he was a child and so gained anti-bodies.

Mike could just hear Davy riffing on that. “Yeah, he’s got an _anti_ -body, all right. Just look at it! Now _this_ ”—a tight-trunks-wearing Davy preened in the mirror—“is a _real_ body.”

“ _Bleehh._ ” Mike stuck out his tongue and shook his head. He didn’t want to think about Davy wearing tight swimwear. He tuned back in to the doctor and nurse rattling on about the incubation period, and that Micky had shown no symptoms, so there was no need to keep him in any longer. Mike recognized well that note of relief in the staff’s voices on saying that.

“I hope he was no trouble,” Mike said, leaning in to memories of the phrase his his mother or uncle and aunt used when collecting him from friends’ or relatives’ houses as a kid. And in the silence that greeted this, he made good their escape.

“So. You been in here, letting them do experiments on you?” he demanded of Micky when they were well out of earshot. “Like, buzzers sounding and making you drool when it’s mealtime?” His notion of experimental science was a little hazy. "No, wait. You do that anyway."

“Do not. And no. It’s not like that there!” Now at the car, Micky helped him peel out of his paper wrappings, and Mike helped him in turn.

“No? What then?” Micky looked fine, so Mike wasn’t worried.

“Meals catered, sleep as long as I wanted, TV, magazines—it was like a rest cure! You know, like at a health resort.” Micky laughed, using the passenger-side vanity mirror to settle his curls as he sat. “Mom used to go to one in the desert when she needed a break from us. You won’t believe it, but we were demanding little kids. Yeah, she used to go for a week and drink all these minerals and get covered in mud, wrapped in palm leaves, go on machines to get pummeled and stretched… Hey!” His cry made Mike jump and almost shoot out into the traffic on the boulevard. “We should try that with Davy! I can easily build a machine to hit and stretch him!”

“You two are always snipping and snapping at each other.” Mike checked it was safe to pull out. “It started as soon as the initial politeness of being strangers wore off. Sometimes I still wonder if this is working out, you know?”

“Mikey, you don’t got brothers. Nor sisters,” Micky began.

“I got a cousin,” Mike muttered.

“It’s not the same as brothers or sisters. Because you three, you’re like the brothers I never knew I had, you know?”

“Micky, that doesn’t make—” Mike shut his mouth and decided to leave it. He knew what Micky meant, he supposed. “And huh, you usually call me mother hen.” And he wasn’t bitter about that. Much.

“Well, you do…” Micky started the wing-flapping mime, stopping when Mike turned a narrow eye on him. “Do check I washed behind my ears,” he finished, in a save as good as any of those performed by the soccer, no _football_ , players Davy liked.

“Did you? In the clinic?” Mike whipped around and leaned over to inspect.

“ _Mike!_ ” Micky dissolved into giggles, and everything was back to normal. Micky quieted down while Mike ran an errand seeing he was in the area: calling into the Basement and setting up their audition. Yes! Looking around the below-ground club, eyeing up its stage and seating capacity, Mike could hardly wait. They’d get it, he knew.

Micky was still a little subdued back at the pad, so Mike cheered him up by testing out his assertion—ringing a bell to see if Micky slobbered. Micky had a rest while Mike tried to finish at least one repair job before something—usually bizarre—happened to interrupt him, and helped Mike load up the Monkeemobile for the _Welcome to Summer School_ gig they were playing later that evening, at UCLA’s North Campus, the bit that housed the arts and humanities departments, making it chick central as opposed to the South or hard sciences Campus, which was nerd central.

Needless to say Davy was looking forward to the gig...


	2. August, 1965 part two

“I love the SS. The Summer Sessions,” Micky added, before Mike could yelp in horror. Micky surveyed the small lawn outside the Admin Building in Westwood’s North Campus, and especially the trestle tables being set up for the welcome mixer party, as if already seeing the food and drink on them. “Yes, quite my favorite sessions _and_ co-eds. Whether they’re party-hearty chicks in microskirts who got behind in their studies, or shy ones in glasses and buttoned-up blouses who want to get ahead on theirs, I like ’em all. In fact, I—”

“Should cool it.” Mike, checking the marked-out space where they’d be playing, and the PA system being set up for them, gave him a glance. “We were lucky to be asked back after last month and what happened at the kick-off evening for the Summer Immersion program.”

“Once again, I didn’t know the immersion was for high-achieving high-school students!” Micky cried.

Mike tested a speaker. “Would it have made any difference?”

The pause his question met with gave him his answer.

“It didn’t to Davy!” Micky eventually replied.

“Yeah, well.” Mike sometimes thought Davy wasn’t perhaps the best role model Micky could have chosen. “It was supposed to be a real-world introduction to college life in LA—”

“Which, let’s face it, is probably gonna include the Davy and Micky experience.” Micky twirled a screwdriver end over end in one hand before kneeling to set up his base drum. “That summer course teaches students the skills they need for here, right? Like…hands-on practicals?” He rubbed his hands, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth.

“And field trips.” Mike closed his eyes as he remembered the young-looking chick—the _very_ young-looking chick—he’d found staring at the coffeepot in the pad the morning after their gig. She didn’t know what it was…because she wasn’t allowed coffee. It would stunt her growth.

“And… _group_ projects,” Micky added.

“ _What?_ ” In deference to the young co-eds wandering about, Mike bit back the _the hell?_ part of his exclamation.

“Well, almost. Not for lack of trying.” Micky hit his cymbal, which reminded Mike.

“You’ve missed rehearsals for a few days—you gonna be okay?” he asked, tightening a screw in Micky’s snare drum.

“Oh, I had my sticks with me and was practicing nonstop in the clinic,” Micky assured him. “Oh, hey, guys!” He stood and waved madly, shouting as if Peter and Davy, approaching, might not see them or hear him.

“Hey, Micky! You’re back!” called Peter.

“What?” Micky spun around, peering over his shoulder. “What’s wrong with it?”

Mike supplied the badum-tish for him. 

“You miss me?” Micky demanded.

“Wasn’t aiming at you,” Davy replied, taking his time approaching, checking out the chick-scenery. A second later a balled-up piece of paper sailed through the air and landed in Micky’s hair. “Was then, though.”

“Ya got me.” Micky plucked it free.

“I missed you, yeah.” Davy hugged him, Peter joining in. “And not just for target practice.”

The tightness and length of the hug, plus the genuine affection on Davy’s face as he grinned up at Micky went a long way toward quashing any reservations Mike might have had about the pair of them sparring and point-scoring off each other all the time.

“And…” Davy lowered his voice and pulled Micky slightly aside, leaving Mike and Peter to set up the instruments as usual. “I think I found a bird to go on a double date with you.”

“Oooh!” Micky’s eyes were enormous as he hung onto Davy’s every word.

Mike was about to ask why Davy felt the need to be so secretive about it when Peter’s, “He’s not about to limit his options at the buffet,” and chin tilt toward the assembling co-eds cued him in. 

“’Course, I had to big you up a bit,” Davy said.

“’Course.” Micky nodded, then looked puzzled.

“I mean, you can use a knife and fork, right?” Davy continued.

“Use ’em _right_? I’m…not that clear on all the different ones and eating British style,” Micky confessed.

Mike nudged Peter, who nodded, waiting for the zinger.

“I meant use a knife and fork at all! Wouldn’t think so, way you eat, like a wild animal falling on its prey!” Davy mimicked him, dodging when Micky growled and went to bite him. “’S’ Lisa, by the way.”

“ _Lisa?_ Long-haired Lisa or Legs Lisa?” Micky demanded.

“Does it matter?”

“Not really.”

“Legs, anyway.”

“Oh, _man_!” Micky had tears in his eyes.

“You’d have to dress smart, like, wear a three-piece suit,” Davy warned.

“For those legs, I’d wear a _four_ -piece!” Micky promised.

“And you can do an English accent, right?”

“Pip pip and tally ho, my old golly gosh,” Micky replied, briefly attired in a frockcoat and top hat, a huge mustache spreading across his face. 

“We…can always say you got laryngitis,” Davy mused. He ruffled Micky’s hair.

Mike thought about that Micky had said, that the other three of them were the brothers he’d never had. Did it go four-ways? If so, did that make Peter Mike’s brother, too? Peter already had a tribe of ’em. Well, three. And for another thing, if Mike had _ever_ felt fraternal toward Peter, he…kinda thought his feelings hadn’t well, _stuck_ on brotherly. It was something he was coming to think about more and more, both when he was with Peter and well, when he was alone. Must be a sign he needed a chick. Or a guy. No; a chick. Looking at guys felt like he was betraying Peter, somehow. Some stupid how.

Davy and Micky did enough checking out the crowd for the four of them, anyway, during their performance. It went well, the audience eager for them to start and dancing right at the first number, even without them planting a friend in the crowd to hit the floor and start the dancing off. Maybe word had spread of their gig here last month? Their set list was more or less the same, anyway, all up-tempo, bouncy dance numbers, with screams and whistles greeting _Let’s Dance On_.

Mike wanted to roll his eyes, He and Micky had written it while watching _Hullabaloo_ one Monday evening, more or less as a joke, a riff on current dance fads, and following a conversation Mike had had with J about dance crazes, that’d stuck in his head. They’d laughed themselves silly composing the lyrics, such as they were, seeing how many dances they could fit it, and usually sniggered while performing it, if one or more of them attempted the dance steps in question.

 _“Isn’t it just a rip-off of_ _Where the Action Is?_ ” Peter mouthed to Mike, echoing the question he’d asked then, on first hearing the song.

“You take that back!” Micky had demanded.

“Sorry—homage to _Where the Action Is?_ ” Peter had amended.

“That being French for rip-off?” Mike had inquired. He’d been right. He laughed now, as he had then. The crowd wanted another similar bubbly number to follow, so it was time to break out the Beatles. Peter caught his eye during the instrumental break and leaned close.

“We’ll be bigger than them, one day soon,” he said. “Sell more…”

“And the Stones,” Mike added. _And if that li’l biscuit chips in with any chop about he’s already got bigger stones, I’ll—_

Davy didn’t, too busy marking his prey for later, when they’d finished. “I got first dibs,” he reminded them at least three times during the set, to vanish into the audience before the last chord died.

Peter shaded his eyes from the last few minutes of sunset to peer after him. “Is that why you got us all the same shirts, so we can be tracked easily in a crowd?” he asked, rubbing his blue-shirted elbow against Mike’s.

“Not easy to track Davy.” Micky mimed squinting at the ground amongst their feet and jumping aside as if something small was passing.

Davy turned and beckoned to Peter for some reason and Peter, as well-trained as Mike had pointed out, set his bass down and started after him, only to turn back. “Want me to stay for the notes?” he asked Mike.

“Oh, I…” _Usually have a few observations or suggestions to bring up after a performance._ But this was a party. A mixer party, but still… “Nothing that won’t keep,” he assured Peter, and Micky. “Wait. You got any?” Because Peter was the most proficient musician of the four of them. They should take advantage of his technical knowledge and intuitive feel for music. No, Mike should make him _value_ those things more. And no time like the present. “Any thoughts at all? Like, music technique ones?”

Peter looked startled. “Well, Davy has more of a range that we’re not exploiting? He’s naturally a baritone, so maybe we could think about material in that range? And encourage him more on the guitar too?”

“And drums.” Micky nodded. “So I can come up front more. And me, Pete? Do me!”

“Peter,” Mike corrected.

“You’ve really improved in power and volume since we started. Since this time last year,” Peter told him. “The purity of your tenor is beautiful to hear.”

“Oh. Okay!”

Peter nodded _yes, I’m coming_ to Davy’s impatient whole-arm wave and raised an eyebrow to Mike.

“Sure. And, thanks, Peter,” Mike replied. He watched Peter join Davy and the energy and vibe change in the group of chicks ringing Davy, who now made a space for Peter.

“Have fun,” said Micky, belatedly, from behind Mike.

Maybe he should have said something like that, or _enjoy yourself_ , but he hadn’t. He couldn’t help remembering that frat house April Fool party they’d played at in the spring, when Peter had gotten together with a sorority girl, Janey. It hadn’t lasted long, hadn’t been serious—what was making him think of that? Oh, she’d been musical, like Peter. That must’ve put it into his head. No, it was because they were in a similar sort of environment here.

“Guess we’d better pack up.” Mike turned to Micky, to find him sitting on his drum stool. “You okay? Come to think of it, why aren’t you out there? Davy ain’t called shotgun on every girl here, has he?” And there were a few hovering—Micky usually got fans.

“I’m a little tired.” The yawn Micky gave ended in a shudder.

“Yeah, when there’s work needs doing.” Mike should have known.

“I _am_ tired!” Micky whined, like a little kid.

“Yeah, guess it’s been real hard for you sitting around on your fanny this past couple days.” Mike got on with casing the instruments, no doubt in his mind that Micky’d jump up off that stool real quick when a blonde, leggy or not, came over.

If there was a blonde, she must have been invisible, because when Mike caught up with Micky, who’d carried Davy’s instrument bag to the Monkeemobile, he was lying down in the back, seemingly alone. Mike did have a quick feel of the space around Micky, to check for an invisible woman, because with Micky, you just never knew, but his nervously patting fingers met only empty air. Okay, then.

Micky went straight to bed when they got back, and Mike, tired too, fell asleep quickly…to be woken the next morning by screaming. _Micky!_ Micky was screaming, or trying to, the noise sounding like it was making its way out from inside a cheese grater that was halfway down a well.

His blood already curdling, Mike peered up at the figure bending over him…and screamed too. Micky’s lower face and neck were inflated to twice their normal size, like they’d been blown up with a pump, the skin stretched, full to bursting.

After, Mike was ashamed that his first reaction was to yell, “Micky! What did you do!”

But Micky couldn’t explain. He couldn’t talk, and couldn’t hardly move. Least, he did so slowly, his eyes filling with tears when he tried.

“Mime it?” Mike suggested, but Micky’s contortions and eye-bugging left him more confused. Okay, he understood the fanning gesture Micky tried next: Micky was hot, feverish, and the swooning act following that meant he was weak! “Why?” Mike asked, to be answered by Micky’s wing-flapping and head-pecking routine.

“Oh, I’m mother-henning? Well, excuse me if I’m concerned!” he snapped, getting up. “If this is some sorta experiment gone wrong, I’ll—”

“Pretty Polly!” croaked Micky. “Polly wanna cracker?”

“You’re…a parrot?” Mike felt he was in the worst game show ever. “Something to do with a parrot?” _No. Of course n—_ But…Micky’s nodding—followed by him crying at the pain the motion caused—said…yes? “Fever and weak and parrot. I’ll get the medical dictionary. Stay here. Don’t fly off anywhere. Distract yourself by looking in the mirror. Actually, better not.” Mike winced for him. The huge swelling was painful just to _look_ at.

Mike slid downstairs and grabbed their medical bible, feeling sure there’d be no entry in the index for anything to do with parrots. But…there was. “Epidemic Parotitis?” Mike scanned the entry, his heart sinking. “Micky!” he yelled up the stairs. “If you’re in my bed, get back into yours!”

“Should…I ask?” Peter, going out to surf, eyed Mike.

“Get Davy.”

“At _this_ hour?” But, obeying the look on Mike’s face, Peter roused his roommate, who came out and tugged his eye mask off to glare at Mike.

“Better be an earthquake, tidal wave, hurricane or—”

“Micky’s sick.” Mike cut Davy off and shoved the book into their hands for them to see.

“Yeah, sick…as a parrot.” Davy bent to read the page. “Oh, epidemic parotitis is posh for mumps. Huh. Says it’s extremely painful and highly infectious.”

“Oh, I had it,” Peter said.

“Yeah, me too.” Davy put the book on the table. “Have you, Mike?”

“Yeah. As a kid.”

“Well, that’s when you get it.” Davy jerked a thumb upward. “Case in point. Sleeps with a teddy bear, lives off fizzy pop and beefburgers, climbs on roofs…”

“Davy! Ain’t no joke—you get it as an adult, you can get serious problems in your…” Mike trailed off and dropped his gaze to crotch level, just as an impossibly high-pitched “ _Mike!_ ” squeaked from upstairs. “Oh no,” Mike finished.

“In your…” Davy and Peter scrabbled for the book and raised horrified eyes to each other, to Mike, then upstairs.

“Ice. Need ice.” Mike scurried to the refrigerator and yanked the freezer drawer out.

“All we’ve got is those ice pops. Ice poles. Freeze pops. Whatever,” said Davy, coming to stare at the long fat frozen tubes Mike held like a multicolored fan.

“Exactly what we need.”

“Mike…” Davy said slowly as he looked at Peter then back at the fat red cylinder Mike was unsheathing.

“What _he_ needs, rather.” Mike hefted the ice pop upward in a stabbing motion. “Cool him down quick and give him relief.”

“Michael…” said Peter this time, even slower, looking at the length and girth of the frozen tube.

“For his throat! Can’t you hear how hoarse he is?” Mike looked at the pair of them staring huge-eyed at him and the thick red tube of ice, Peter with his hands over his crotch and Davy backing against the wall. “ _Jesus_ , guys! What is it with this place?”

A bell tinkled, rung from upstairs, and Mike didn’t salivate, but rushed up for what was to be the first of many, many times that day.

“Who has whom well trained?” queried Peter when Mike scurried down the spiral staircase seconds after hurrying up it.

“He wants water,” Mike explained.

“But that’s water, that you just took up.” Peter pointed to the cup in Mike’s hand.

“Yeah, but it’s too warm. He wants colder water.”

Seconds later, having gone up, he was back down again.

“Too cold?” Peter surmised.

Mike ignored him in favor of tipping a little boiled water into the beaker and trying again. Third time lucky. Micky, wrapped in a shawl so his deformity wasn’t visible, accepted it. But his next request…

“What?” Peter sprang up at the look on Mike’s face and even Davy looked up from his magazine.

“He…” Mike swallowed. “Wants a bed bath. Every nook and cranny. Crease and crevice. And not just a sponge bath. A bed bubble bath.”

“How… No. Don’t wanna know.” Davy screwed his eyes shut tight.

“Fingers?” Peter queried.

“He didn’t say anything about— Oh, right.” Feeling stupid, Mike drew his hand behind his back, as Peter and Davy had done, to choose via fingers who would serve as Micky’s bed bather and dryer.

Mike lost.

“David Thomas Jones, don’t you go sneaking off!” he griped, seeing Davy sidling to the front door.

“I’m gonna get him his comics.” Davy’s injured innocence could rival Micky’s. “Take his mind off…things.”

He still wasn’t back an hour later. “What’s he doing, drawing and printing the damn things himself?” Mike muttered, going up for the latest orders.

“Well?” Peter asked, from his weary drape over a chair. Helping Mike in air drying a naked and still-slightly foamy Micky had taken a lot of breath.

‘“Soup and not Peter’s,”’ Mike quoted. “Sorry.”

“I’ll go to Pop’s.” Peter rolled to the floor and stood. “He loves the minestrone there. ‘What’s not to like? It’s a meal in a bowl!’” His Pop imitation was…passable.

“And a way to use up leftover vegetables and pasta.” Mike had worked more in Pop’s kitchen than the others and been privy to a few tricks of the trade.

“And…” Peter continued, after a quick check of the kitty and its sorry state, “we can get it on credit.”

Mike was resting when Peter returned. Well, curled into a ball on the rug, his hands holding pillows over his ears. It counted as resting, right? He’d needed it after helping Micky pee. Into a bucket. While Micky was still in bed and Mike was at the bedroom door. “I was— I can explain,” he assured Peter, uncurling. “So, roll dice? Lowest number’s on soup-feeding duty?”

“I’ll go.” Peter bent down to pat him on the head as he passed to climb the stairs, only to return seconds later, the takeaway container still in his hand.

“What? Too hot? Too cold? Too salty? Too bland?” Mike asked.

“Too many bits.” Peter shook the pot, making the chunks slosh about. “He can’t eat it. Should I have gotten smooth minestrone?”

“No, I think we gotta invent it.” Mike headed for the blender, and within a minute was climbing the stairs with the plastic cup and a straw. And, merciful heavens, this new improved smooth version was to the patient’s liking. When Mike came down again, Peter was reading through the bumf from the clinic. Mike frowned. That’d been in Micky’s bag, far as Mike knew. Peter had a weird knack for coming across things.

“This is where he was? This is the ‘collective project’ he was ‘a part of?” Peter tapped the leaflet.

“Erm, yeah.” That was what Micky had said, yesterday, when they’d asked, making it sound like some kinda experimental theater ensemble.

“And they tested the mumps vaccine on him there?”

 _Oh for fuck’s sake._ Mike couldn’t believe how _dumb_ he’d been. Obviously Micky had gotten the disease there! He shot a sidelong look at Peter, hoping he didn’t realize Mike had failed to put one and one, never mind two and two, together. “Well, yeah. I’m fixin’ to call them, inform them…”

“Yes, they should know he had a delayed reaction. It’s presumably important for their results.”

“Typical. Boy does everything in his own time. Even his drumming. Ready?” Mike placed a chair on the table and stood on it and signaled to Peter to pass him up the phone. Peter did so and made sure the cord was stretched from the phone across that half of the pad to the socket in the wall, taut and straight—the only way they could get an outside line. He dialed the hospital, just as Davy came in.

“Duck!” cried Peter, and Davy did, to avoid being garrotted by the wire Peter held stretched across the doorway.

“Where’d you go for that comic, England?” asked Mike, sourly. Davy was the king of melting away, suddenly not being there, when things needed doing. And yet none of the nicknames they’d tried out, occasioned by this, had stuck. The Artful Dodger, the Scarlet Pimpernel, Macavity—nothing. “The Teflon Kid,” Mike muttered. Maybe that one would stick. No, wait, that wasn’t—

Davy lifted up the bag he was carrying. “The Mall. I got a few bits, seeing as how Micky’s like this…”

Mike squinted at the bag, which he thought was from the toy shop there, trying to work out what it contained. Some sort of tube? Maybe Davy had found a novelty straw, to cheer Micky up while he had to drink most of his food. He was about to ask when the phone was finally answered. “Hello, yeah, the Medical Center, er, the clinic, the medical school bit, please. It’s in regard to a vaccine. A vaccination. A vaccinated patient.”

“Patient? Last thing he is,” Davy opined, starting for the stairs when the bell rang before he was nagged into it, which should have warned Mike.

Peter’s arms must have been aching by the time Mike got through to the clinic and was passed from person to person. Things took a while to explain as Mike didn’t know Micky’s medical details exactly, and the bits he did know and said sounded…bizarre. Suddenly high, thin shrieks came from upstairs.

“Davy, you better not have gotten bored up there and started poking Micky in his bulge!” Mike yelled. “Sorry, doctor. Kids, you know?”

A heart-rending yelp was followed by a Mancunian accent shouting “Bull’s eye!”

“Davy, if that was a peashooter in that bag, I’ll ram it where— Just don’t make me go up there and confiscate it!” Mike shouted. “Sorry again, doctor. What? No, the patient didn’t come home to a house with minors. Well…”

“They’re over sixteen,” Peter threw in.

“Yeah, they can be tried as adults,” Mike added.

“Not that they try to be adults,” Peter quipped.

More high-pitched cries came from the upstairs bedroom. “Davy, he’ll get you back when he’s better,” Peter reminded him.

“ _If_ he gets better.” Davy stood at the doorway up on the landing.

“Bite your tongue! No, not you doctor.” Mike would have thunked his head on the table if he’d been able to reach it, but he couldn’t, not wobbling on a chair on the table. “Yeah, thanks. Bye.” He climbed down and went to help Peter rub his arms from where he’d been on phone cord duty.

“I didn’t mean that.” Davy took Peter’s other arm and rubbed. “Yeah, there’s plenty of times we all want to murder him, but I was getting into character. Micky has a list of chicks he wants us to call and tell them he’s dying.”

“ _What?_ ” Mike stared at him.

“It’s not a lie—he’s hardly immortal,” Davy pointed out. “No, he wants to see—”

“Who’s the most upset at the news? Davy—”

“Nah. Who’ll come and grant him a last request. Dying man’s final wishes.”

“And why,”” Mike asked grimly, “do I think that those wishes involve the chick wearing a tiny bikini?”

“Because you’ve met him?” Peter smiled his thanks at them for their circulation-restoring work.

“Mike! That’s not fair! He doesn’t want the bird in a bikini…for very long.” Davy slapped his thigh at the zinger.

“Hmm, well, see how many you can call before either the phone or Peter’s arms give out,” Mike said. “I’d better make a start on cleaning this place up before visitors arrive.” Mrs. Purdey had some kind of built-in radar for stuff like this. It served them well when she knocked on the door with cakes or stew, her response to it, and he didn’t want her seeing the mess that the three of them catering to Micky’s whims, no, looking after Micky in his illness, had made of the place.

“How many d’you manage?” he called over a little later when Peter’s arm spasms tugged the phone from Davy’s hands and Davy from his makeshift tower.

“Two.” Davy, sitting on the floor, rubbed his head. “Let’s see who comes. My money’s on Diane. You know, Desperate Diane?”

“Easy bet. And I don’t encourage gambling!” Mike shook a finger at Davy.

“Or labelling women like that—” Peter started to say, only for his words to be cut off when the door was thrown open and a female whirlwind entered, crying and screeching.

“She sure is desperate,” Mike had to say when the women darted upstairs…to get as far as the bedroom door before she shrieked fit to wake the dead—or the could-be dying—and ran off, the thuds of her footfalls still echoing and the staircase still shaking after the front door had slammed behind her.

“Well, I appreciate you were going for desperate, but ya should’ve picked one with stronger nerves,” Mike commented.

“Or worse eyesight.” Davy nodded. “Peter, you up for more phone duty? Think I’ll try Morbid Mandy. You know the one, digs all those teenage tragedy songs?”

“Those melodramatic death discs?” Peter asked.

“Yeah, the splatter platters.”

“Those tearjerker ballads? Like, I Lost My Love to a Hot Rod Accident?” Mike asked.

“Or a hot roller accident, if it’s a bloke singing about a bird.” Davy nodded. Crooning, ‘“Tell Micky I love him, my drummer boy’s in hea-ven,’” he climbed the tower again.

“Be careful up there.” Davy’s version of the phone mast involved two chairs on top of the table. “Or we’ll be singing about the English Angel Who Fell to Earth,” Mike warned. “And I can’t think of a rhyme for Davy.”

“Gravy?” Peter suggested. “Behave-y?”

“Wavy?” Mike mused. “Only his hair’s straight.”

“Oh, for God’s sake—call yourself songwriters? The obvious rhyme for Davy is baby!” Davy scorned. His sarcasm made the tower shake and he wobbled and fell. Luckily Mike was there to catch him.

“Teenage tragedy averted,” Peter commented.

The bell was rung violently and loudly from upstairs and Micky’s scrape-screech voice sounded.

“Or just beginning…” Mike slid Davy to the floor and took up the deck of cards to deal until first jack out decided who had to go up to Micky this time.


	3. August, 1965 part three

“Micky’s what you might call a poor patient,” Mike had to admit, going into the bedroom with a comic—hopefully the right one this time, unlike Davy’s attempt—and crossing paths with Peter coming out.

“He’s…not the easiest of patients,” Peter agreed, flexing his fingers and shaking out his hands: it’d been his turn to administer a back rub, and Micky’s back and shoulders were bony.

“He’s a right git of a patient,” pronounced Davy, behind him, swishing and swirling the glass to get the non-dissoluble pain killer to dissolve. “Here, take this with you. I can’t shake this anymore. It’s making me want a cocktail as it is. Well, let’s say, _something’s_ making me need a drink.”

Mike, exiting the room as quickly as possible a little later, reckoned he knew how Davy felt. The bottle of bourbon he had secreted under the loose floorboard in the bathroom—no, that’d been the last hiding place. The current one was buried under a rock in the crawl space beneath the sundeck—started to loom large in his thoughts. Distracted, he almost banged into Peter, this time coming into the bedroom as Mike was going out.

Peter made a grab for and saved the three small bowls he was carrying in a stack. “We must stop meeting like this. Or not meeting—which one of us has the _Lederhosen_ and suspenders and which the _dirndl_ apron skirt?”

Micky and Davy’s usual reaction to a Peter-ism was an eye roll, or a headshake, but right from the beginning the off-beat things Peter came out with had intrigued Mike. He stored them up to puzzle over, and usually solved them, even if months later and by accident, perhaps by something else that was said or something that he came across providing the key. This one though…

“Why would we have those things? Be wearing those things?” Because even if he hadn’t understood some of the words, a skirt was a skirt, right?

“Because we’re like the _Mann_ and _Frau_ in a _Wetterhaus_. You know,” he continued when Mike frowned in confusion. “Those little Alpine houses you hang outside to tell the weather. Weather house? That would be a literal translation, but here that’s a building where the weather bureau works, isn’t it.”

“A…wooden weather forecast house?”

“ _Ja!_ The man comes out when it’s going to rain and the woman when it’s going to be fine.”

“I get it!” Mike tried to put a name to the emotions zinging through him. Pride, in having solved a puzzle? Interest, in this glimpse into Peter’s thought process? Pleasure, at understanding a little more of the layers that made up Peter? “And they both stand right in the doorways when things are changeable,” he added, to turn his thoughts away from the last two possibilities.

“And the woman’s always on the left. Sinister, right?”

I…” That was another…not _joke_ , exactly, but pun, maybe? Something. And that one Mike did file away. He’d check in the dictionary first and— “Yeah. We’re in and out opposite here, all right,” he said, just to say something. He pointed at the stack of bowls. They had something in. “Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, Micky wanted me to separate the Froot Loops into red, yellow, and orange and wants to eat them with his eyes closed, to see if his taste buds are affected by the mumps.” Peter shook his stack, making the cereal rattle.

“They all taste the same!” Mike cried, scowling when Peter had mouthed it along with him, even doing the exasperated hand gesture Mike went in for. But he had to grin. They knew one another’s ticks and crosses, as the saying went—didn’t it?—by now. “You know, we spend entirely too much time together.

“Or…not enough,” Peter muttered, going into the bedroom, from where louder and more frustrated thumps on the floor were coming.

And what was that supposed to mean? Mike had no time to ponder on it as the tempo sped up and the cast of characters increased, as tended to be the case in the pad, as any given day wore on. Today was more demanding than most, as the, well, _demands_ , continued and the people piled up. Toby, carrying a hot drink, collided in the den with her twin brother bringing a cold one; Mike, coming out of the bedroom with a hot washcloth, bumped into Peter carrying a cold washcloth, and Mrs. Purdey, bearing hot broth, got stuck in the doorway with Mrs Homer, bringing cold Jell-O.

Toby came out of the bedroom and called for Mike. He was sitting right there, but well, Toby… “Micky…” she began.

Mike wondered if he should correct her, remind her he was Mike. He settled for a neutral noise.

“He’s quite ill. I mean, worse than I thought. Than you’d think, right?”

Mike did the noise again.

“He’s real bad.” Toby bit her lip. “He needs help.”

Well, yeah. Nutjob needed a ton of it, but today, specific medical help. “We…don’t have the means to get anyone here, for a house call,” Mike admitted.

“The phone’s broken. Right.” Toby nodded. “I’ll send for someone. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it for you. For Micky.” Her eyes moist, she patted Mike’s shoulder.

“Oh, but I do worry,” Mike said to her departing back view. “In general and more now.” With Toby helping, who wouldn’t? Wait. What had that little pest been saying to her? Taking advantage of a lull in the foot traffic to the upper floor, Mike paid a visit to the sick bay and found the invalid sitting up, a comic in front of him and taking alternate slurps of the chocolate malt to the left of him and spoonfulls of the orange Jell-O to the right.

“If you’re faking…” Mike began.

Micky shook his head then teared up at the pain. He tried to speak and Mike, feeling guilty, stopped him. “Don’t strain,” he reminded Micky. “And yeah, you shouldn’t be moving about much. Here.” He held the malt up for Micky to finish it with a loud, rude noise, then fed him a few more spoons of the dessert until Micky indicated he’d had enough. “What?” Mike asked, trying to figure out what Micky wanted. “No, don’t talk. Where’s your writing pad?” He spied it on the bedside table and handed it to Mick.

 _Check my tessticuls?_ Micky wrote, spelling it like that, _tessticuls_ , so it took him pointing at the area in question for Mike to get it.

“Check your— How? No, I mean, against what? We haven’t exactly got a book with pictures of ideal testicles in it… Do we?”

Micky shook his head, the movement violent, and with a jerk shoved the couple of magazines that were under his pillow onto the floor, then cried with the pain the abrupt movements caused him.

Mike, perhaps not surprisingly, was exhausted and fell into bed in relief that night, to sleep at once, and deeply and well, except for dreams of swollen-faced, Micky-faced parrots flying across the sky, chased by flying testi—well. Some things were best left unnamed. At least Micky must be on the mend, meaning less work, less chaos tomorrow…

He was woken by Davy, in the space between his and Micky’s bed, shaking Micky awake. "If you drew these on when I was asleep…” Davy’s voice was furious, and his face…covered in flat red spots.

“Nooo! Dddnt ooo anythin!” Micky protested, or grated, holding up his hands as if in testament to his innocence.

“Cool it, Davy!” Mike scrambled out of bed, scrambling back in to pull shorts and a tee on then scrambling out again. “Here. Let me see…” He gently tweaked one of Davy’s ears forward, to look behind it.

“Ha! Eee uuuly does tha to mee!” Micky gloated, coughing at the effort, his swollen face and neck shiny and almost pulsating and quite horrible.

Mike was checking for spots on the backs of Davy’s ears—and found them. “Ya go looking for tigers, ya find tigers,” he mused.

“ _Tigers?_ ” squeaked Micky, scrabbling away a little, staring at Davy.

“This is _real_?” Davy queried, pointing at his face and twisting to see it in the mirror.

“Told you it was unlikely to be red pen,” came Peter’s voice from the doorway. Mike was glad he’d put clothes on. Peter, in his bedroom, with Mike bare-assed… “Rubella,” Peter finished.

“ _German measles!_ ” Davy shouted at the room at large and especially at Micky.

“Funny, where I grew up, we called it English measles.” Peter came in.

“Where was that?”

Germany,” Peter answered Davy.

“Hey, there’s no time for you two to re-enact the goddamn second world war!” Mike told them, seeing Davy squaring up. “Wait. Measles is rubella…” That damn clinic! “So they injected you with this vaccine, too, Micky?”

“And he passed it to me.” Davy sat with a thump on Mike’s bed.

Micky hooted and grunted for a few seconds, then held up a finger for them to wait as he scratched on his writing block. He held up the page: _Dont say I never give you anything. Your welcome._

“Apostrophes optional, were they, in your school?” Davy asked. “Like spelling? Or, actually, education?” He rubbed his forehead in a way that said his head was aching, and Mike thought he probably had a high temperature too.

“Let’s focus up, here, guys,” he said. “Peter, you had this disease?”

Peter nodded. “You?”

“Yeah, me too. Micky?” Mike asked.

Micky nodded, then teared up at the too-vigorous movement.

“Good.” Mike nodded.

 _Y?_ Micky scribbled on his paper.

“You’ll see.” Mike turned to Davy, still sitting on his bed.

“No.” Davy jumped up. “I’m not going in here with the Lump Neck of Notre Pad.”

Mike eyed him. “How long you been working on that?”

Davy tried an _oh, it was nothing_ shrug, but it looked odd with his pale, rashy face. He was sweating now and squinting as if the light pained his eyes. “But I don’t want—”

“Babe, it’s gonna be a heck of a lot easier for me than running up and down here _and_ in and out of your room,” Mike explained.

“Pete—”

“Is busy. Elsewhere.” Mike stared Davy down and it was a testament to how weak the l’il biscuit must have been feeling that he climbed into Mike’s bed without any further protest.

 _Easier for me_ , Mike thought later, _really? When it feels like I’m making double the number of trips up and down stairs?_ “Oh right—I am,” he groused, shaking out more aspirin from the bottle with one hand and running the faucet with the other before calling the clinic to report that Micky had carried the virus, which had infected a host.

Mindful that Babbitt would be making an overdue-rent-related appearance before too long, Mike returned to the DIY he’d undertaken to do to appease the landlord. He’d just gotten onto the roof, literally just one foot off the ladder, when “Mike! I need teeeeaaaa!” had him back down again. Then, knowing they needed fresh material to perform, he’d just seated himself at the piano, trying to coax out the words he’d been churning over since talking to that square the other evening—"when you go to a party, and you can’t tell the boys, from the girls”— and make them coalesce with a tune, when “Miiiiike! Sooodaaa!” stopped him mid plunk.

“Gotta laugh,” Mike muttered, through clenched teeth, then thought, _oh_. He scrawled GOTTA LAUGH down at the top of the page, as a possible title, tilted his head to one side, erased the GOTTA, then jumped at the louder and more imperative “MIIIIIIKEEEE!” from above.

He’d been given a time to call the manager of the Basement, and, with Mr. Schneider’s help, managed to finagle an outside line and get through, having to apologize and ring off at the chant of “Toast, toast, toast, toast, TOAST!” that filled the pad, issued from the upstairs bedroom that he was coming to understand was the portal to hell.

He was on his second attempt at speaking to Mr. Jansen, Greg, when Micky yelled, his voice as powerful as Peter had said, “I need some ice—”

“Davy, can you see to Micky’s testicles just this once?” Mike called back, as Micky finished, his voice quieter, “Cream. Please. Any flavor.”

Mike realized two things. One, he’d forgotten to cover the receiver when he’d yelled and two, the stunned silence on the other end of the line was painful. “No, it’s not—I can explain,” he gabbled. “I wasn’t—we don’t— Hello? Ah, dang it in a bucket of shine!” He banged the phone down, dislodging the cord from Mr. Schneider’s upstretched arms, which weren’t a patch on Peter’s for maintaining a phone line. “You are one useless dummy,” he told it, turning for the freezer.

“You catch more bees with honey, asshole,” came in the damn marionette’s synthetic staccato, making Mike whip round. But the mannequin just gave him a blank look, even when Mike pretended to ignore him and then spun back around, hoping to catch it sticking out its tongue, or smirking. _Wait, no._ That would be…petrifying. He suddenly understood Micky’s fear of dummies and—

“Anything but pistachio!” was yelled from above, Micky’s voice sounding if not better, then louder.

“Anything else?” he asked Micky, when he’d handed over the ice cream, having gone back down twice, once to squirt chocolate sauce on it, and the second time to find wafers. “While I’m up here?”

“Read to me?” Micky held out his library book imploringly.

“Can’t Davy read to you?” Mike looked across at the other bed. His bed.

“I have been. He says he can’t understand my accent,” Davy replied, shading his eyes.

Mike drew the drapes across a little more. “I guess the mumps is maybe affecting his”— _don’t say brain. Not when brain inflammation’s a possible complication. Micky’ll freak_ — “concentration.”

“Nah. He’s just uncultured.” Davy reached over to flick Micky’s comics to the floor.

“Don’t do that and don’t say that,” Mike scolded.

“Why, doesn’t he know what it means?” Davy settled down, ruffling the bedclothes, and just as Mike was bending to pick up the comics, Micky squealed and clapped a hand to his face, which made him squeal some more.

“David Jones, if you still got that peashooter, I’ll— Oh, I wish Peter was here!” Mike exclaimed.

“Huh. Careful what you wish for,” came Peter’s voice from the doorway.

“What— What— _What?_ ” gasped Mike, grabbing the bedpost for support at the sight of Peter. The sorry sight of Peter, his face covered in a rash of small raised white spots. Not just his face—his neck and the vee of his chest visible through his shirt were peppered too. “The hell?” he added belatedly.

“It itches.” Peter went to scratch his chest, then stopped himself. “Fever, tiredness and headache too, so I’m guessing it’s chicken pox.”

It was a sign of how serious it was that neither Micky nor Davy made any kind of _Peter’s got the pox?_ quips.

“I guess you’d better get into the tub and I’ll make oatmeal,” Mike said.

“Yes, you must’ve worked up an appetite looking after those two…” And with that attempt at a joke, Peter was gone.

“You two, just, I don’t know, don’t cause any trouble while I’m gone,” Mike ordered the mumps and measles patients, throwing them his medium-stern glare before leaving the room. In the kitchen, he grabbed the huge bag of oatmeal and ground as much of it as the blender would take into a finer powder, then headed to the bathroom with it.

“Can I come in?” he called.

“Sure.”

Mike took a step inside and stopped.

“I doubt I have anything you haven’t seen before,” Peter, already naked, observed.

 _Not this up close, I ain’t_ , Mike thought, but didn’t say. He averted his eyes as much as he could and still manage to pour the oat powder into the warm water running from the faucet. He swished the mixture about to help it dissolve, and judged it ready. “Careful. It makes the tub slippery,” he cautioned Peter.

“Hmm.” Stepping inside the still filling bath, Peter considered Mike. “You don’t have younger siblings…but do you have a child you haven’t mentioned, Michael?”

“What?” Mike fought not to freeze, to act normal. “Oh, ha-ha. I got cousins and I’m used to kids. Church, neighbors, whatever. Just lie in the mixture and don’t let it all stick to the bottom.”

“ _Oh_ , that feels better.” Peter’s groan as he lay down was…something Mike could have done without. He busied himself picking up Peter’s clothes, carefully keeping his back to Peter, and holding the discarded jeans and shirt over his crotch when he had to face him.

“Good,” he replied, checking the water temperature and motioning for Peter to swirl the mixture about with his feet. Mike…wasn’t about to plunge his hands into the tub. Not with it occupied.

“And when I feel strong enough, I’m ganging up with Davy against Micky,” Peter vowed.

“Micky…” _Oh, of fucking course._ Again, Mike had been slow. “Back in a sec,” he told Peter, going to consult the medical dictionary. Really, it was the most-read book in their pad, its spine well-creased, and it told him the proper name for chicken pox, a name Mike remembered reading on one the three doors leading from the Reception in the clinic.

“Micky!” he yelled up the stairs. “You test the varicela vaccine too?”

“A little,” came down from the second floor after a pause.

“Well, can’t say you ain’t hospitable, kid, not when you brought three different sets of guests back with you!” Mike yelled. Unwelcome guests for their unwilling hosts. He pulled himself up the stairs. “Micky, you had this disease?”

Micky nodded.

“Davy?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’ll see…”

And if they didn’t see, they heard, heard the creaking of the pulley and the jolting against the railing of the bed Mike was winching up to the second floor. “Gangway!” he called, pushing the bed on wheels into the room. “Or, actually, not gangway. The opposite of gangway, whatever that is.”

The ‘opposite’ was three beds side by side, with no aisles in between. It left space in the bedroom for a camping mattress on the floor, which they had to take turns on when they all needed to share the room. They were used to doing that, used to renting out the downstairs room when they needed cash—although the less said about some of their temporary lodgers the better —meaning they all had a flexible approach to where they slept, and a multipurpose approach to rooms in general. No choice, really.

Mike laid the tarpaulin sheet he’d fetched from the garage over the sheet on the bed.

“That’s the ground sheet we use for camping,” Davy observed.

“Yeah. It’s waterproof.” Mike straightened it.

“Why? Does Peter wet the bed?” Micky asked Davy, who shared a room with him.

Mike didn’t hear the answer. He was on his way down again, sparing a few minutes to call the medical testing place again with a fresh report before he went to soak a pair of pajamas in baking soda, and wring them out as much as he could before returning to the bathroom, head turned away, to urge Peter to put them on, like an all-over cool compress to relieve itching.

Peter normally ran hot—least, that’s what Mike deduced, from the way Peter usually wore as few clothes as possible—so the damp fabric would soon dry. And if that swollen little terror upstairs made another joke about Peter having wet pj’s, Mike would…do something.

The something he was doing at the moment was clearing up the downstairs, and so when he made his weary way up the spiral staircase, which felt as long and high as an actual helter-skelter now, it was to find Micky, Davy, and Peter, all in matching pajamas, all sitting up in bed.

‘“There were three in the bed and the little one said— _Ow!_ ” Micky finished, rubbing his arm. “Mike, he thumped me!”

“He insulted me,” Davy replied.

“Didn’t. You _are_ little,” Micky argued.

“Only in height.” Davy’s riposte silenced Micky, although Mike could hear him thinking, trying to work it out.

“I’m gonna run to the drugstore, get more aspirin and some lotion, but before I do, Peter, hold out your hands,” Mike ordered.

When Peter did, Mike slid a pair of bright orange and yellow woolen mittens, Peter’s actually, although Mike had no idea why he had them, onto his hands, then wound the electrician’s tape from the garage around Peter’s wool-covered wrists, taping the mittens on. “Stop you scratching. Don’t want pock-marks, do you?” he muttered. Peter had such, well, nice skin. Shame if—

“That’s crazy!” Davy pointed at Peter’s colorful hands. “What about when he needs tea?”

“I’ll hold the cup,” Mike told him.

“Or when he wants to read?” Micky asked.

“I’ll hold the book.”

“And when I need to pee?” Peter queried.

“I’ll hold your— Woah, okay. We’ll…figure something out,” Mike decided.

Like an elevator or escalator to the second floor, the way he was running up and down with aspirin, cold drinks, ice, lotions, books, newspapers, and magazines. The patients, maybe because they all had different diseases, slept at different times, fidgeted one another awake, argued who was the sickest, and generally annoyed the living tar out of one another.

A noise in the drive outside drew Mike’s attention and he peered out of the door to see an ambulance pulling into their drive. “Oh thank God—it’s here to take me away. I mean to take you to hospital,” he called up the stairs.

But he was wrong. “Hi—huh—hello?” he tried to interrupt the stream of doctors and junior doctors and trainee doctors and ex doctors, for all Mike knew, as they tramped up to the bedroom, his head whipping from side to side, following their progress past him and up the stairs. “Who— What— More of you? And nurses? Oh, what is this, a field trip? To play sardines? Oh come on—you ain’t gonna all fit in there! And some of you don’t look old enough to be doctors!”

“Allowing students to train on the case is part of the program’s terms and conditions,” called back the doctor from the other day, squashed in the doorway.

Which Micky had no doubt blithely, blindly signed.

“As are home and follow-up visits,” the nurse from before added, squeezed alongside him.

“This is so useful!” The doctor was rubbing his hands, as much as the tight space allowed. “Three in one. The full trinity!”

“They’re…not even Catholic!” was Mike’s lame come-back. “None of ’em!” He changed his mind about being taken to the hospital.

Things calmed down a little after the institute staff had all gone. Mike helped the patients downstairs for a change of air, as most of the doctors had advised. Not that the physicians had treated the patients—they weren’t that sort of doctor, as they’d said. Repeatedly.

“Oh yeah? Well, we’re not that sort of patients,” Micky had responded.

“Except…we are,” Peter had corrected.

Davy had just smacked him one, around the back of his head.

And helping the three of them downstairs, with all the limitations on that, such as not leaving Davy alone with Micky, because of the smacking—and the peashooter, which Mike hadn’t been able to find, much less confiscate—or leaving Peter alone, in case he scratched himself—he was flexible enough to use his toenails to do so; something…Mike preferred not to think about. Well, not in public— was like a Monkees version of the fox, chicken, and bag of corn problem.

Mike was just eyeing them all, reasonably calm and content, Peter with socks taped on, on the couch, pleased with his work and relishing the silence when there came the thunderous hammering on the door and the stentorian shout of “Listen up, you bums!” that meant only one thing.

“Babbitt. Guess Charm School let out early today,” Mike said on a sigh.

“Boys!” was yelled from the front door, the force and intonation making it into an insult.

“Hey, don’t come in!” Mike called, as the door started to open. “We got sickness in the house. Infectious disease!”

“A likely story!” First a foot, then a leg, then one side of Babbitt’s body pushed its way in. “What sickness? What ‘disease’?”

“Mumps,”

“Measles,”

“Chicken pox,”

called the three invalids in unison.

“Ha! See? You can’t even keep your stories straight!" snapped Babbitt, coming in fully.

The couch span around to face the door and the man standing in the doorway.

“Hi—”

“Mr.—”

“Babbitt,”

Came in turn from a swollen, spotty, and rashy Micky, Davy, and Peter. Peter waved his socked hands.

“What… He’s… They… I gotta go!” Babbit left scorch marks on the floor, he ran so fast, calling, “You got an extension on the rent!” over his shoulder as he raced away.

“Well, that’s worth remembering,” Peter commented.

“What, as in we send Micky to this experiment place at the beginning of every month?” Mike helped spin the couch back around.

“Mike, you’re being mean to me!” Micky complained, folding his arms.

“Yeah, Mike! Don’t be mean to Micky—you know that’s my job,” Davy threw in.

“Very funny.” Micky glared at him. “Mike, could you find me a pen? A nice bright felt one, please.”

“Sure. You wanna do the crossword?” Mike went to hunt in a drawer.

“No…” Micky advanced on Davy and stared at his face. “I wanna do dot to dot. Gonna join them together, make a picture...”

Mike could only guess what sort. He wiped his sweating forehead with his shirt sleeve, allowed them one TV program and packed them back to bed again. He was enjoying the relative peace and quiet, half-dozing on the couch, when he caught Davy sneaking down the stairs. Davy stopped, trying to pretend he wasn’t there and wasn’t dressed and wasn’t heading for the door.


	4. August, 1965 part four

“Davy—” Mike started, stopping to stare at his face. “Okay. I won’t ask where you got the makeup to cover the spots, or _why_ you got makeup to cover the spots but—”

“I’ve got a date,” Davy said, as if that explained everything.

“Well, yeah, ’course you do—today’s got a Y in it.” Mike folded his arms. “By which I mean you go on a date every day! Sometimes two! And your record’s five! What, you think something bad’s gonna happen if you go a day without? You miss a day, you break the streak?”

Davy’s face, even all the layers of dark brown pancake foundation, said he did. Oh. Well, that kind of explained… _something_ , even if Mike didn’t know what.

“It was supposed to be that double date, but the way _he_ looks… So, I’m gonna have to improvise.” Davy, seeming to take Mike’s silence for assent, hefted the duffel bag in his hand.

“No, no, _no_! No changing clothes in the gents, clapping on a pair of glasses, and pretending to be your own twin brother!” Mike ordered, leaping up and waving his arms. “You _know_ it never works. It didn’t work at the miniature golf—”

“ _Davy_ golf,” came on a fake cough from the top landing.

“And it didn’t work at the bowling alley and it didn’t work or at the go-karts,” Mike continued. “ _IT NE-VER WORKS!_ ” He hadn’t realized he felt so strongly about it, but he knew he couldn’t go through another round of fake-twin-trickery.

“And there’s no need—I’m fine, look!” came from the bedroom doorway, where Micky, wearing a voluminous trailing coat like a cloak over his pjs, stood with a long white silk scarf and a tall black top hat in his hands. “I’ll fling this on over the bulge like so, add the hat to complete the look and… _violin_!”

“Yeah, and that’s what they’ll be playing for you if they see you in that. World’s smallest, playing _Hearts and Flowers_.” Davy mimed playing and intoned the sad tune. “I’m not taking you anywhere like that. You look as camp as a row of tents, mate. As camp as a jar of coffee. As camp as Christmas. As—”

“Neither of you are going anywhere. You’re both infectious. Or contagious.” Mike still wasn’t clear on the difference. He steered the bickering pair back into the bedroom, unwinding Mickey from his _écharpe_ or _foulard_ —he wasn’t clear on the difference there, either—and flicking off his hat en route.

“Fine,” Micky whined. “But if I can’t go out, I’ll need my magazine to distract me. And I do, actually, because the special edition I’ve been looking forward to’s out today.”

“Sure.” Getting out to the newsstand down the road seemed like an overseas vacation to Mike. “Which magazine?”

“ _Swank_ ,” Micky replied.

“What?”

“ _Swank_.”

“With…an _S_?” Mike thought he’d better get that clear, at least. Because with Micky’s reading habits… “Wait a minute. Is it one of your…special interest magazines?”

“No, Mikey. It’s a nudie mag,” Micky answered, climbing into bed.

“Which one is it?” Davy inquired, divesting himself of clothes. “Oh, is it that one that pretends to be a naturist health and beauty publication, with all the naked ladies doing exercises and getting checked over outdoors?”

“Hardly,” Micky scorned. “That’s _In the Pink_.”

“Is it the one where the women look so fake, all smiling inanely as they show off their bodies that look unnatural, with no body hair anywhere?” Peter asked.

“Peter?” Mike stared and had to close his own jaw with his hand.

“No, silly. That’s _Grin and Bare It_.” Micky tutted.

“ _Micky!_ ” Mike yelped. “I don't care what it's called—I ain’t comfortable getting you girlie mags!”

“But, Mikey, you _gotta_!” Micky pleaded. “It’s the collector’s edition with the quiz: What’s Your Romeo Rating? You know, test your sex IQ!”

“Oh, I can do that for you.” And Davy held up a sheet of paper with a big fat zero drawn on it. “There. Saved you the forty-five cents. You’re welcome. That’s _you’re_ with an apostrophe. That’s the little comma that goes above the line, between missing letters.” He sank back in exhaustion against his pillows at all the zingers he’d unleashed.

“Oh, you Brits are such snobs!” Micky scorned. “And not just about spelling, with your extra _U_ s everywhere. Or should I say euveurywheure? You’re snobs about porn, too!”

“This discussion is very free-ranging,” Peter commented. “I’ll moderate. Go on, expound on your assertion?”

“You only gotta look at the titles of their magazines! _Knave_ , _Esquire_ , _Gentleman’s Relish, The Butler Did ’Em_ —it’s like lower the drawbridge, we’re going forth!”

“Think you mean, lower the drawers. And not so much _going_ as com—”

“I am not buying you _porn_!” Mike only realized how loudly he’d shouted, interrupting Davy, when the windows rattled in their frames. Well, they tended to anyway, but— “It’s not as though you’ll be able to—oh god—enjoy it, with all three of you practically in one bed, is it?” he pointed out.

“ _Fine!_ I guess it’s ice time, then. And the doctors said to palpate, try to get the swelling down.” Micky toyed with the fly buttons on his pj bottoms.

“Funny, I find palpating that area gets the swelling _up_ ,” Davy commented.

“Oh, and you two should check for spots in the genital area.” Micky indicated Davy and Peter. “You heard the doctors.”

“I tried not to.” Davy had his hands over his ears.

“Ooh, we can form a line or a chain, see to each other’s!” Micky was almost bouncing in delight.

“What, you want us to handle one another’s privates, in a circle? And I thought Peter was the one who went to boarding school,” Davy inquired.

“I did, but not an English one,” Peter lobbed back.

“Well, I could do everyone’s, I suppose,” Micky offered, wearing a doctor’s mirror and holding an economy-size bottle of lotion in his hand. “If I got nothing else to do…”

“Micky—” Mike caught the other two’s agonized expressions. Micky was heavy-handed at the best of times, which this _so_ wasn’t. “ _Playboy_ okay?” he asked, cravenly, and hating himself for it.

“Oh yeah.” Micky nodded.

“Yeah,” Davy seconded.

“Yeah. I read it for the articles,” Peter thirded.

“Well, don’t. You shouldn’t read— I mean, you should keep cool, not get sweaty,” Mike was horrified to find himself babbling, thinking of Peter reading one of those magazines. No, _enjoying_ himself, reading one of those magazines. “All of you,” he tried to cover.

“’S’okay, Peter can have a bed bath. I’ll let you use my bubbles,” Micky offered.

“You make your own, in the bath, you do,” Davy threw in.

“Huh?”

“Think about it.” Davy smirked.

Mike wasn’t really hearing their latest sniping. His ears weren’t working properly—they couldn’t, when his mind was full of the picture, the idea of. _Himself._ _Bathing. Pe—_ His brain skidded and stuck, refusing to go on. Peter was looking warmer than he had been. Would he in fact need— As if reading Mike’s mind, Peter brought a leg up and scratched at his chest with his toenails.

“Hey, none of that.” Mike leapt up, clucking and flapping his wings. This he could deal with. _This_ was tugging a pair of socks from his drawer and fetching a roll of duct tape from the Non-Suite.

“No, don’t…” Peter tried to back away as Mike approached, stretched-open sock in hand.

“’S’for your own good…” Mike grabbed one ankle to hold Peter’s foot steady while he rolled the sock on, smoothing it down then taping it around his ankle, hampered by Peter wriggling and well, _writhing_ was the verb Mike’s overheated brain spat out, like a broken slot machine burping out old pennies. Peter wiggled more when Mike repeated the process on the other foot, and it was only when Mike raised his eyes from Peter’s feet that he understood.

Peter had an— a— He was— Well, halfway, and rising fast.

“Don’t worry. It’s not you, it’s me.” Peter crossed his legs to sit in that pretzel shape, instead of diving under the blanket. “Or rather, my feet. They’re…sensitive.”

“They’re kinky. _You’re_ kinky,” Davy commented, leaning over to see as Mike staggered back from the bed.

“How do you _do_ that?” Micky looked from Mike to Peter. “Yoga? Meditation? Can anyone learn?” He grabbed his own foot and started pressing the sole.

“Micky…” Mike’s warning tone rumbled like a growling dog.

“That’s so neat—less in the way make it easier to check the area,” Micky added, doctor’s reflector back on again.

Mike only finished backing up when he hit the doorframe. He turned and ran and didn’t stop until he got to a newsstand where he wasn’t known. When he got back to the pad, the girlie magazine concealed in the most innocuous magazine he’d been able to find, it was to find a girl arrived on the doorstep to visit Davy, and who raised an eyebrow at the copy of _Pins and Needles, Your Monthly Home Dressmaking Companion_ Mike was carrying.

Receiving a visitor wasn’t that simple, not when Mike had to check the bedroom was tidy—he wouldn’t say decent, not with the three of them in it—and persuade Micky he didn’t need to act as chaperone, with all _that_ entailed, and help him and Peter hide in the tiny much-less-than half-bath off the bedroom…then do it all again ten minutes later when what Mike could only presume was Davy’s back-up date called too.

When this girl arrived, Mike stared: she looked very similar to the first. “I’m seeing double,” Mike muttered. “Or double date.” Then when an older-looking version of the two arrived next, Mike had to say something.

“Davy,” he began, when the third woman had gone and Micky and Peter squeezed themselves out of the tiny Non-Suite for the third time. “Those chicks. Erm, women…”

“Rose, Lily, and Violet?”

Mike was pretty sure that while the two younger ones had been twins, the third one had been a fair bit older. _Big sister_ , he prayed. _Please let her have been their big sister_.

“Don’t ask unless you really want to know,” Peter advised, speaking from the experience of someone who shared a room with Davy.

Nodding, Mike made his extremely weary way down the helical stairs to start the makings of a broth for dinner. Or was it breakfast, by now? He’d lost all sense of time. The knock that came at the door had him wondering if it actually was the next day, and this was Bobby, the mailman, but no.

Mike opened the door and stared at the man dressed in black clothes with a white collar. A Roman collar, Peter called them. A dog collar, Davy said. The man stared back, maybe waiting for Mike to realize he was a minister. Mike did, and showed his understanding by pointing at the guy’s neck.

“I’m here to—”

“Minister!” Mike cried, interrupting.

“Well, quite.” The man tried a smile. “I’ve been sent to help you. Or rather, he in need.”

“Yeah, that’d be me,” Mike told him, wondering if the guy would run to the store, stock their food cupboard. No, they tended to offer practical help. He was maybe here to help with the repairs?

“Up there, I suppose?” The minister pointed.

“Yeah, exactly!” So the guy knew he’d been trying to fix the roof. He wasn’t exactly dressed for clambering about, making repairs, but—

“Miss Willis didn’t quite explain. Just said needed help from a professional.”

“Well, I guess… But I don’t know as it’s worth trying to make what’s up there keep going, you know? Seems prolonging it’s wishful thinking and it’s time to call it a day…”

“Oh.” The man nodded and tugged a travel-sized Bible from his pocket. “Elderly. We have but fourscore year and ten… This is a difficult time for you.”

“Yeah,” Mike admitted, punch-drunk with tiredness and not taking above half in. 

“Well, I’ll do all I can. Give what comfort I can. No”—he waved Mike back when Mike went to guide him outside to the ladder—“I’ll take it from here.” He started up the stairs.

“But…” Unable to think of a way to finish the sentence, Mike shut up. As his mouth stopped, his brain started. The guy had said Miss Willis— _Toby?_ Why, _why_ had she sent a clergyman, instead of a doctor? Had she gotten mixed up? She…did tend to. Only last week, she’d gone all around the neighborhood photographing dogs and interviewing their owners, for a feature that had turned out to be on _purses_ , not…pooches. And before that, it seemed she hadn’t realized _guerrilla_ was a different thing to _gorilla_ , because when she’d heard about the guerrilla warfare in Vietnam, she’d thought— Well. Mike didn’t want to go there again. The images that had been in her head, that she’d shared, still haunted him.

Or, wait, weren’t her parents telling her she had to be more careful about spending, now she was trying to earn a living and be responsible for herself? And Toby had—she’d been only half-filling her gas tank lately…and calling up her dad or the auto service when she ran out of juice while driving. She’d economized by not buying boots in the latest color, just painting her old ones instead…and left a trail of bright orange footprints around Beechwood. So maybe in sending a minister and not a doctor, she was cutting out the middleman?

Whatever, the minister she’d sent didn’t strike Mike as being made of very strong stuff and he wondered how long the guy would last. Not long, was the answer—Mike was still chopping the few vegetables they had, wondering how he could make boiled onions and potatoes taste less like, well, boiled onions and potatoes, when the minister backed out of the room…and down the stairs. Literally, went down the staircase backward, no mean feat considering its shape.

“Everything all right?” Mike asked from the kitchen.

“What? Oh…yes…I…” The minister peered at Mike around the spiral banister. “I just…”

“Have to get something from your car?” Mike asked, fighting an eye roll.

“Yes!” The minister grabbed at the lifeline. “Supplies…”

“And why do I think you don’t mean calamine lotion and throat lozenges?” Mike threw down the chopping knife and advanced. “What ‘supplies’ you got in mind— stuff like holy water? ’Cause we got most stuff here. Bell—”

The minister flinched as it rang from upstairs.

“Book”—Mike pointed to their medical bible—“and we always got plenty of candles, for when the power’s cut!”

“If he’s offering, ask for some incense?” Peter’s voice called. “We’ve run out.”

“And he’s run away.” Mike shook his head and closed the front door. He climbed the stairs again and eyed the three…invalids, was the word he settled on, rejecting the other worse ones. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” came in triplicate.

“Musta been Peter’s confession scared him off,” Davy added.

“What?”

“Yeah, he confessed to getting a boner when you groped him earlier.”

“I did no such thing!” Mike and Peter said together, Peter adding, “I wouldn’t talk about that. It’s private.”

“You mean privates.” Davy of course.

By now, Mike had been through so many last straws he could have plaited them into a rustic-looking basket. “Do any of you,” he inquired, breathing down his nose, “know what the Texas expression ‘38 hot’ means?”

“The…temperature?” Micky asked, having been nudged from both sides to reply—he was in the middle.

“Not quite. It’s a back home saying meaning… _more visitors?_ ”

“More visitors?” the other three were echoing, puzzled, but Mike was already halfway down the stairs by then, to see who had driven up now.

“Mr. Jansen?” he called in surprise on seeing the manager of the Basement getting out of a sporty Shelby Cobra in the drive.

The manager straightened up with a grunt, fluffing out the ruffle on his shirt. Like his car, it was designed for a slightly younger man, but… “Good evening, erm, hi, I mean. Michael. Mike, right? Greg. I’m a little early I guess.” He grinned, his teeth as white as the two thick racing stripes down the very middle of the long hood of his car.

“Early…” Mike gripped the door jamb.

“For the audition? With this being the only day I can spare to get any new house bands booked before I go overseas, and me being in the neighborhood? Like we arranged on the phone yesterday?” Greg laughed. “Yeah, I could hardly hear anything too, with how it kept cutting out. You should get that heap of junk fixed!”

“Oh, I intend to.” Mike tried to unclench his teeth: he’d thought the audition was this time next week! Damn and blast that phone and— About to request that they reschedule, the manager’s words caught up with him. _Only chance!_ _But…_ _Think, Mike think!_ he ordered himself.

“Actually, you’re a little early, yeah.” Mike had no idea he’d been going to say that, or what was going to follow it. “I guess you’re a punctual sort of guy, huh? Well, ya gotta, to be the manager, right? Very organized, meticulous…”

Greg frowned. Mike had just called him uptight, him with that car and that outfit!

“So if you could hang loose for a coupla shakes, hang out here while we get our vibe grooving and, erm, our groove vibing…” Yeah, he still had no idea what he was saying, but luckily, neither did Greg, and, flashing him a peace sign, which the man eagerly returned, Mike sauntered in then hurled himself up the stairs.

Looking back on the incident, Mike wasn’t sure what he was least proud of. Maybe snatching up his pajamas and yanking them on to his body, deeming this an easier approach to a band uniform than getting the other three plus himself dressed in their eight-button shirts and gray pants. Or very possibly the way that, gabbling half an explanation as he did so, he hustled the others down the stairs and to the bandstand, where luckily their instruments were out and set up. Or maybe the ruthless way he made whatever tweaks and adjustments were necessary for the others to take their places and look like a band, despite their illnesses.

He knew what things he was more ashamed of, though. For one, that the Monkees weren’t so much performing as…miming to a tape of themselves they’d made the other week. For two, that, them never having any luck with recording equipment, they had to mime first faster and faster, then slower and slower, keeping up with the playback as it spooled too quickly or too slowly. Oh, not just them, but Toby too. Because they’d once asked her to sit in as the audience, to gauge her reactions, she tended to appear whenever they rehearsed, as if they’d shone a Bat signal.

“ _Batty_ signal,” Davy said. Oh, and Toby usually dragged her friends who lived locally with her, Soozie being today’s guest, alternately dancing frenziedly, then sluggishly, and totally bizarrely. And worse, Soozie tending to copy Toby, she’d apparently let Toby give her boots a makeover too, and was leaving vivid, lurid purple paint footprints to Toby’s equally as eye-catching bright orange ones.

Mike went from panic to horror. At the fast speed, it sounded like they’d all inhaled helium and in making their actions match it, they looked like demented wind-up toys breaking free of their winders. Toby and Soozie looked like they were having fits. Then the tempo slowed and slowed and slackened more and more, from a lament to a threnody to a dirge. Mike was almost glad when it stopped, mid song, with them frozen mid-action, Davy with his maracas high, and Toby and Soozie doing their best not to move a muscle, despite their heaving chests, sweating faces and wild hair.

“Mr. Jansen? Greg?” Mike focused on him rather than make eye contact with anyone else. Just as Soozie was purple and Toby orange, Mike was brazen. “What did you think?”

“Think? Think?” Greg, who’d slid from the chair to the floor after the first song—Mike wanted to think it was because Greg was attempting to be free and easy, like the youths who frequented his club…but couldn’t really—now stood. He paced a few steps, his hands in his hair. “What do I think? I think…you’ve got a drummer who plays with an ice pack strapped to his neck and popsicles sticking out of his—”

“Briefs,” Micky finished for him, muttering, “Told you the swelling needed seeing to earlier,” to Mike.

“And ignoring the ice?” Mike tried.

“Well, I think you got a lead singer—”

“Hey!” Micky protested when Greg pointed at Davy.

“Who plays in a mask because he’s _shy_ , you said?”

Yeah, it hadn’t been one of Mike’s best improvisations.

“Yet who spent the entire audition coming on to the audience—”

Davy shrugged. He was probably mouthing _force of habit_ but it couldn’t be seen under the _Man in the Iron Mask_ …mask.

“The audience who leave colored footprints as they dance…” Greg shook his head, his eyes huge. “A bassist who plays with mittens taped on to his hands and a lead guitarist who’s in nightwear, like you all are—maybe I should have started with that, or the way you lip-synched to an off-tempo tape recording— but who’s wearing _his_ pjs over his clothes and looks one beat away from a nervous collapse! I…I…”

“Can explain,” Mike mumbled, hoping no one would ask him to.

“I…LOVE IT!” the manager finished, clapping his hands loudly. “It’s outta _sight_! It’s so goddamn far outta sight, it’s in the distance!”

“ _Really?_ ” Mike gasped.

“There’s only one thing remains to be said…” Greg eyed them all, one after another, the girls included. “Can you start on Monday? The go-go dancers too?”

“I…” Mike swallowed then inhaled. “Think that could be arranged.”

“Groo-vy! What a cool trip!” And still letting loose such near-miss exclamations such as “Right up!” and “Righteous, brothers!” and “Fab most!” Greg was gone, with a complicated tattoo on his horn, having left them a contract behind to look over.

“Mike?”

“What—”

“Who—”

“Why—”

“Hey, your floor matches our boots!”

all came at once, and Mike collapsed on the couch, his guitar still in his hands. Peter took it gently from him. In the silence that followed, Mike croaked out, “I hope I’m okay for Monday.”

“Okay?” Micky whispered. “Why… _Oh._ Oh! Mike! Your neck! You’re all swollen!”

“And spotty,” Davy added, pointing at his face.

“And blistered.” Peter stared at what could be seen of his chest. “I’m guessing mumps, measles, _and_ chicken pox.”

“You’ll have to look after Mike now,” Toby observed, handing him the _TV Guide_ , her contribution to caring for him.

Peter nodded. “I’ll cook.”

“I’ll makes some triple-disease, triple-strength medicine,” Micky offered, a faraway look in his eye.

“And I’ll dress as a nurse.” Everyone stared at Davy. “What? Not like you weren’t all thinking it. And yes, I still got the white uniform dress.”

A few minutes later, a chorus of “Yo ho, heave ho,” rang around the den as three Monkees hauled the remaining bed upstairs. A minute after that, Mike was helped up the staircase into it.

“Thanks,” he muttered hoarsely.

“You know what’s best about this?” Micky inquired.

“ _Best!_ ” Mike tried to exclaim, but his croak was drowned under Micky’s cry of “Monkee pile!” as he led the charge and dived on Mike, who suffered all three of them hurling themselves on top of him.

Well, not exactly suffered. Because at times like these, a guy needed—

“Us.” Davy preened.

“His fellow Monkees!” Micky shouted.

“The brothers…” said Peter

“That I never knew I…wanted,” Mike finished. Yeah. Even though life at the pad was—

“Haphazard,” Micky mused.

“Unexpected,” Davy said.

“Sometimes dangerous,” Peter cautioned.

—Mike wouldn’t have it any other way. He opened his mouth and the others snuggled closer to hear. “Coffee!” he bellowed. “Sandwich! Ice cream! Soda! Malt! Lotion! Read to me! Put music on! Fetch me my motorcycle magazine!” He didn’t see which of them started the pillow fight, but he sure knew who finished it, days later…when the other three least expected it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going through a busy period, so doubt I'll be able to update for a while. SADFACE. But the next bit's got Stephen in!


	5. November, 1965

Mike, trying to clean and straighten the kitchen _and_ the eating area _and_ the back part of the pad all at the same time, knocked yet again into Davy, who was trying to see in the mirror hung on the wall there that was _just_ that little bit too high for him to do so easily. Although small, Davy was solid and, knocked off-balance, Mike had to clutch tight to the wobbling stack of plates he was holding and trying to find a place in the kitchen for.

“ _Tsk,_ ” Davy tutted, before Mike could, like he had done the first two times Davy’d banged into him.

Letting out an exasperated sigh wouldn't cut it this time. Not with Mike trying to clean in the evening gloom, with Davy now having angled the light toward the mirror, like a star’s dressing room. He put the plates down and folded his arms.

“Davy, you got ready for your date in front of the mirror in your bedroom—I presume—and you checked yourself over in the bathroom mirror for a good long time—least, that’s what I assume you were doing in there. And if it wasn’t, I don’t want to know. So why d’you need to hog this mirror, too?”

“Never hurts to triple-check things.” Davy turned and gave a final glance at himself over one shoulder, triple-checking for what, Mike didn’t know.

“Yeah, well, I know one thing you sure don’t triple check…” Mike slotted a plate onto the top of the cupboard. Good place for them? They’d been part of Shelley White’s trousseau and so were barely used, but she’d gone and replaced them anyway. Mike…didn’t want to think that was a metaphor. No, he was just grateful to have a matching set he hadn’t had to acquire over time after saving up gas station coupons for. “Or double or even once check.”

“What’s that?” Davy spared him a glance.

“The chores list.” Mike flicked the chart.

“I don’t have to for another two weeks.” Davy took out his comb again—for his eyebrows this time. “You know I’m excused until then. Because of that thing.”

 _Do I? Is he?_ Whatever the ‘thing’ was, it wouldn’t surprise Mike. He frowned, trying to remember if he’d _ever_ seen the l’il biscuit with a cleaning rag in his hand. “Say, what’s in this cupboard?” he asked Davy as a test, kicking at the door of the space under the sink where the cleaning supplies were housed.

“Your special hot sauce. It’s its latest hiding place,” Micky called over from in front of the TV. “It’s rolled up in a cleaning cloth, just behind—”

“Yeah, all right!” Mike resisted the temptation to throw a cleaning cloth at _him_. “It was a rhetorical question.”

“That’s stumped him,” Davy said, in the silence that greeted this. Well, silence from Micky. The TV was on some stupid game show.

“Yeah, well. Who’s your date with, anyhow? Someone fancy, I’m guessing.” Mike indicated Davy all gussied up.

“The luscious Lilly.” Davy preened a little more.

“Nuh-uh, it’s the ravishing Rose,” Micky called, his eyes still on the screen.

“No, it’s— Oh.” Davy scratched his head, then cursed and combed his hair again. “Might be. Check for me, Mike? On the calendar?”

“On the cal— Oh, what is this, on the cal— There’s no name here, just a sticker of a red flower.” Mike squinted.

“It’s a rose! Don’t you have red roses in Texas?” Davy tutted for real this time.

“Nope, just yellow.” Mike smirked. “So, ya got so many chicks on the go you just reduce them to symbols? Why not assign them numbers?” He stacked another plate. Yeah, the top of the cupboard was a good place. Not like it had to be someplace Davy-reachable, the way that little Brit seemed chores-proof.

“Oh, and I’m not in for dinner.” Seems the plates had reminded Davy to announce it. “Nor breakfast, if you know what I mean...” He winked.

“Yes, Davy. We always know what you mean.” Mike’s sigh was long. And long-suffering. Thinking about dinner made him wish Peter would hurry back with it. Surely he’d been gone a while, considering how close Pop’s was?

“He had his acoustic with him.” Micky still didn’t turn from the screen. “Bet he’s playing something there.”

Mike tsked again. He felt he’d been doing that a lot this week. He also felt that even if Pete didn’t have an instrument with him, he had them stashed in places he went to. Like some folks had a book wherever they went, like their car, or their desk at work, say.

“He does it with books too,” Micky called.

Okay, so the first one, just seconds ago had slid right by Mike, but that second one, just now, so close to the first, added up to something downright…well, _something_. Mike stared over at Micky, the pad’s resident mind reader, and Micky turned to him and shot him the sweetest, most disarming smile Mike would say he’d ever seen…if he wasn’t familiar with Peter’s. Peter’s dimple gave it an extra dimension, somehow. “At least _he_ practices,” Mike muttered. “ _And_ shows up for rehearsals.”

“ _I_ never miss rehearsal,” said Micky, virtue ringing from every word and shining from every pore.

Davy wandered over to him, maybe figuring Micky an easier target for a comeback than Mike. “Why you watching this rubbish? _Bewitched_ is on the other side.” He snorted with laughter. “I still think it’s hilarious they live in Morning Glory Circle. You can’t tell me the writers weren’t having a laugh there.”

None of them had known the British slang expression until Davy had told them what it meant, so Mike doubted the scriptwriters of _Bewitched_ knew it meant boner.

“Go on, switch over,” Davy cajoled Micky.

“No!” Micky, looking younger than his years, clasped a pillow to his chest, and when that didn’t cut it, drew his knees to his chest too.

He was a little, well, _scared_ of that show, Mike knew. Or…was it of witches in general? Or magic powers in general? The supernatural? That Mike didn’t _quite_ know. He dried his hands off on the dishrag and walked over to catch Davy’s eye. That was enough. There was no need to make a _leave it_ gesture. Davy understood. He wouldn’t freak Micky out more by asking if he knew Samantha, they seemed kind of similar, for instance.

“I like this show,” Micky insisted, pointing his chin at the quiz game.

“You know he likes to watch the celebrities, get pointers for his impersonations,” Mike commented.

“This you settled for the night, then, in front of the telly, Gramps? What’s next, _Peyton Place_? Gonna watch with your Harrington jacket on?” Davy mocked.

“I’m just watching till Peter gets back,” Micky protested.

Davy sat on the arm of Micky’s chair, drawn in to the quiz show. He shuddered at the announcer. “That voice is so creepy. Remember that last one we watched? ‘The password is _moist_ ,’” he intoned, his tone sepulchral. “Creepy.”

“Quibble?” Micky repeated the password and gestured at the screen. “That dumb schmuck ain’t gonna know what that means!”

“We can’t all have word a day calendar, Mick.” Mike, drawn in too, sat on the other arm of his chair.

“Nibble,” the contestant said, going for a rhyming strategy to make his celebrity partner guess the word.

“Did he say nipple?” Micky feigned shock.

“You know the mystery word in this pad?” Mike inquired.

“Why do I think its chores?” Davy said on a sigh

“Oh, so there is one o’ya knows that goddamn word!”

Davy laughed when the next password was _spell_ , and the one after that _double_. “’S’like _Bewitched_ ,” he pointed out.

A rap on the door came right then, and had them jumping and looking at one another.

“Your turn.” Mike ruffled Micky’s curls.

“But…” Micky, still clutching his pillow, pointed at the screen.

“The password is _twin_ ,” came from the scary-sounding unseen announcer.

A knock came again, louder, more peremptory.

“Go on!” Davy prompted.

Micky walked backward to the front door and opened it, his eyes on the screen. Mike caught a glimpse of blond hair in the doorway.

“Lost your key again?” Micky asked, his attention still on the TV.

“Ain’t never had one,” the man standing there replied, causing Micky to do a huge double-take stare.

“Looks like Peter, sounds like Mike!” he yelped, turning tail and running for the No-Room, _spell_ , _double_ , and _twin_ bouncing around his head and the pad, somehow.

 _The loon._ “Micky—Micky!” called Mike, to the slammed-shut closet door. He turned from that to the open front door, where a blond guy…who wasn’t Peter stood. “Help you?” he asked the, well, _cowboy_ , was the impression Mike got, although the guy wasn’t wearing a stock hat or a Stetson. Maybe to do with the dusty, travel-worn boots? For a moment, he’d almost thought the guy was…someone he knew.

“Lookin’ for Pete,” came in a not-quite drawl, not-quite twang.

“Peter?”

Mike tried to keep his tone neutral, in the face of this stranger who seemed to fill more space than he took up. Maybe a result of the thick sheepskin jacket, a bit like Peter’s but more battered? Or the knapsack on his back, the bedroll broadening his shoulders? Staring at the guitar cases the man was carrying, Mike hadn’t realized there was a silence until it solidified—Davy had switched off the TV and come over.

“Hey, man…you Stephen? From New York?” he asked.

Mike doubted it from that accent. More like someplace—or places—south. Even Louisiana…

“Yeah’n’I’m looking for Peter.”

“He ain’t here.” Mike’s twang thickened in response to the thick, deep roll of the stranger’s voice.

“But ’s’his house?” The newcomer, voice gruffer now, looked from one to another.

“Yeah, he lives here but—”

“He ain’t here.” The guy tipped his head back, looking at Mike from heavy-lidded blue eyes. “You said.”

“Oh, but I am,” came from behind the guy, as Mike went to explain. “Why—” Peter cut off his own question with a cry of “ _Stephen?_ ”

Mike and Davy each grabbed a sliding pizza box before Peter dropped them in throwing his arms around the visitor, then both leapt backward, Davy cursing, to avoid the guitar cases being deposited on their feet as the guy—Stephen—clasped Peter in return.

No, not a clasp, a hug. Big and expansive, from the throwing open of his arms wide to the hard, sure pull into them and the rocking of his body that carried Peter’s with it, making Stephen’s longer, thinner blond hair fly and the acoustic guitar on Peter’s back sway with the motions. It hit Mike then that this was the guy in the Village Peter had said everyone thought was his twin. Huh. Mike wasn’t so sure about that.

Peter stepped back, his hands on Stephen’s shoulders. “You just got into town?”

“Uh-huh. You said…”

Peter nodded at the slight hesitation. “No problem. Come on in!”

“Okay?” Stephen broke the hold and their shared verbal shorthand and glanced at Mike.

“I…was just about to invite you in to wait.” Mike…had been. He knew his manners.

“And now we’re inviting you in for pizza,” Davy added, lifting his flat box.

Stephen mimed tipping his hat and bent to pick up his guitars.

“When today?” Peter asked.

“Just now.”

“And you left—”

“Uh-huh. Thinking to meet up—”

“How many in the group? Who, I mean?”

Mike listened to the telegraphese as he closed the front door Peter had left open, moved Stephen’s backpack and guitars closer to the wall, less of a trip hazard, then headed for the kitchen. Davy deposited his pizza box on the table, the closest he’d come to cooking in a month, Mike couldn’t help thinking.

“Think it’s been a while since they’ve seen each other?” he asked Mike.

“Yeah.” Mike tried to recall when Peter’d last been in NYC.

“So they wanna catch up. And it’s late already.” He broke off as a car horn sounded from the drive, presumably for him, and he looked at Peter before he continued. “Stephen, if you’re staying over”—Davy glanced at Mike now, as if checking—“you can have my bed…if you shower first? No offense, mate, but you’re pretty rank.”

Stephen stared at Davy, who stared back, giving no ground, until Stephen threw back his head and laughed, a gruff, raspy guffaw. He stepped forward, grasped Davy’s hand and shook it, gripping his shoulder with the other hand. “’S’your name, kid? I like to know the name of the guy whose bed I’m in.”

“Oh, Davy, Stephen. Stephen, Davy.” Peter remembered his manners.

“And I’m not a kid,” Davy added, standing up straight and squaring his shoulders.

“No. Get that.” Stephen raised his hands, palms toward Davy.

The car horn sounded again, “I gotta go…” Davy hurried for his jacket on the coat stand. “Bye, all. And, Stephen, have my share of pizza if you like,” he called over his shoulder before the door banged closed behind him.

“Outta sight.” Stephen followed Peter to the coat stand to slip off his jacket too. He repositioned his guitars. “Giving up his dinner and bed to a stranger—he Christian or something?”

“He’s something all right,” Peter agreed.

“As in, got better waiting elsewhere, right?”

“Usually, yes.” Peter grinned and Stephen rasped a laugh. “Come in properly. Micky? Micky! Come meet Stephen from Greenwich Village!”

Micky crept out from the No-Room, looked from Peter to Stephen and shook hands with the latter.

“Michael, Stephen.” Peter waved from one to the other and Mike shook hands. Guy was strong and had a powerful grip.

“Let’s eat?” Micky was already standing guard and practically slobbering over the pizzas.

“Sure. Stephen?”

“Sure.”

Mike was still trying to work out if the guy was mocking him in repeating the word he’d used and with almost identical intonation when Micky offered to show Stephen to the bathroom to wash up for dinner. He soon returned, shooting out of the john like a scalded cat from a barrel. “He started to pee! With me still in there!” he exclaimed.

Peter laughed. “The apartment we shared didn’t exactly have a separate head. Guess he got used to it.”

“Think I’d better reheat these a minute or two.” Mike lit the oven and whisked the pizza boxes away from Micky, who whined. In the bathroom doorway, Stephen took a look around the pad, rolling his shoulders now his backpack was gone…and made straight for the instrument podium and Peter’s banjo. “You play that?” Mike asked, his question redundant a second later when Stephen strummed the Ode, his touch confident and his skill evident.

“My second-ever instrument was a baritone ukulele,” Stephen replied. He played a C chord at the banjo’s head and the same chord at the twelfth fret, listening with his head on one side, then moved the bridge back, evidently not satisfied with the tuning. Mike shot a glance at Peter to see his reaction, but Peter was at the jukebox selecting records.

“What was your first?” Micky asked.

“Hmm?” Stephen had his head bent and eyes closed.

“Your first instrument.”

“Oh.” Stephen set the Ode on its stand and gave a jagged-toothed grin. “Drums. Slingerland.”

“Yeah?” Micky followed Stephen’s gaze over to his own Slingerland kit. “Me too. You wanna…” Sticks appeared in his hands and he held them out in invitation.

“Your set-up’s…unusual.” Stephen nevertheless sat on the drum stool.

“Yeah, the top’s right-handed and the bottom half’s left-handed.”

“So, left-footed.”

“Yeah! I play the kick with my left foot and— Did you hitch here?”

Mike had been wondering the same. New York City was a long ways away.

“From the bus station, yeah.”

“You moving here?”

“You a cub reporter or something, cub?”

“Nah. Just nosey,” Micky admitted in answer to Stephen’s gruff question.

“But you are a cub. You’re a Los Angeles Leopard cub.” Peter joined them and ruffled Micky’s curls.

Mike flexed his fingers, because it was as if he felt the texture and spring of Micky’s hair on his own fingertips. Huh. Which of them had started doing that, rumpling Micky’s curls, first? Mike thought it had been Peter, and he’d copied. Oh, he’d missed a bit—Peter was explaining that Stephen had been part of some café or club house band back in the Village and gone on tour with them, but now quit.

“So you came to LA to form a band with a musician you met on tour, who’s here?” Micky’s eyes were wide.

“Guitarist—helluva guitarist—and good songwriter. Singer too.” Stephen’s face made it clear he thought he was better in those areas. “Yeah. Gonna crash with him—them—in Topanga.”

Peter regarded him. “Why do I think it’s not that simple?”

What, somethin’ like he doesn’t know about the plan and I ain’t got his address?” Stephen grinned. “I got a drawing of the house he did for me and I remember stuff he said when he described the neighborhood. Oh, and there’s a whole song mostly about the view from his veranda. So just a question of looking. I got eyes, don’t I?”

“So— But—”

“You might wanna stand back while I test out your skins,” Stephen interrupted an open-mouthed Micky. “I wail _hard_.”

“You wanna wait?” Mike interrupted him. “Pizzas are good and hot.”

“Two?” Micky asked, at the table a heartbeat later as if by teleportation. He pointed. “Peter, two?”

Mike had been wondering too.

“Oh, one was almost free.” Peter pushed the chairs around to make room for four at the kitchen table. “A kind of leftover special.” He lifted the cardboard lid.

“As long as it ain’t a Micky special. He likes to invent pizzas,” Mike explained to their guest. “What was the last one—mashed potatoes and meatballs with caramelized onions?”

“Oh, that’s like a Pittsburgh thing, Pierogies, dough filled with creamed potatoes, onions and cheese?” Stephen nodded to Peter to say yes, he wanted a slice. “And in NYC, guy I hang out with likes to squash out the potato filling and spread it on a slice of pizza.”

“See, Mike!” Micky was triumphant.

“Hmm. Does that guy have half the pizza mashed potato and the other half cookies and cream?” Mike raised an eyebrow. “No, thanks, Peter. Not that one—what _is_ that one?”

“It’s lamb, grape leaves, olives, feta, and a tzatziki sauce. Pop had a Greek evening.” Peter shrugged.

“Drinks…” Mike got up.

“We eating?” Micky whined, at the delay.

“You’re drooling,” Mike retorted, opening a beer. Guests first… “Stephen?”

“Michael.” This came with a nod.

Mike poured half the beer into Stephen’s glass and, struggling not to comment or even raise an eyebrow, the rest into the glass Peter held out. Peter didn’t often drink.

“Michael?” Micky echoed, already opening the second bottle and pouring it into Mike’s glass for him. Well, half. He took the rest. Sly little—

“Shall I say Grace?” Stephen said.

“Sure.” Mike blinked.

“Grace,” intoned Stephen and Peter giggled. It was obviously an old joke. An in-joke.

“Well, cheers.” Mike raised his glass to the table at large and their guest in particular. “Good health, I mean. Davy says cheers.” And he felt stupid.

“What d’you chose, Mike?” Micky had already finished his Greek slice. “Was your turn, right?”

“It was indeed…” Mike lifted the lid with satisfaction and feasted his eyes on the thick chunks of beef brisket sprinkled with plenty of chili peppers, tomato, and red onion, and topped with thick, strong cheese. “Fresh cilantro,” he informed Micky before he could ask what the green bits were. “Want—”

No need to finish his query—Micky’s plate was already waiting. “Yeah?” Mike asked Stephen too, who was finishing his first slice. Guy was skinny. Peter had described how tough life had been in the Village. Was still, maybe. At Stephen’s nod, Mike passed him a slice then took his own. He also took a sniff, one which had him tsking. “Pop still doesn’t get ’em picante enough.”

“Michael, my eyes are watering over here!” Peter protested.

“Well, mine ain’t.” Mike went to unearth his hot sauce, with its real Texas jalapenos, and glanced at Stephen, another southerner. “You want?”

“Huh? Oh, no thanks, man.”

“Yeah, it’s a little—”

“Got my own for when food’s too damn bland. Which is all the damn time.” Stephen tugged a small, slim bottle from a pocket.

“Louisiana hot sauce?” Mike tried not to scoff at the mass-produced cayenne pepper mix.

“Ah, wrong pocket. That’s my breakfast sauce. This is my dinner sauce.” _This_ was a small glass bottle with a cork stopper. Stephen held it up to show it held a single red pepper, lethal-looking, somehow, in the muted light. “Just water, salt and good old _ají puta madre_ pepper.”

Micky choked, obviously understanding the name. Having grown up in LA, he understood Spanish expletives.

“Oh, you wanna try some, cub?” Uncorking the small flask, Stephen made out he was going to tip some over Micky’s pizza, making Micky yelp and protect his plate, while still choking. _Choking more._ Mike thumped his back and Peter fetched him water.

“You haven’t choked like that since the hotdog eating contest,” Peter commented.

“WhichI stillwon,” Micky protested, his mouth full of pizza and now water.

“Yeah, six months’ supply. Which you ate in a week, mainly by staying up late every night.” Standing too, Mike took the glass Peter had refilled and set it down, leaning over Micky’s shoulders to cut his pizza into smaller sections for him, following the rule they had about giving Micky a chance to eat properly, but if not…

He caught Stephen following the movements of his hands on the knife and fork. God, what did this look like? Chimps’ tea party at 1334 Beechwood Drive? A kid and his handlers? Whatever, what a lovely introduction to life in the pad. He hoped the rest of the evening was calmer…

It was, with Mike clearing up to the sound of Stephen strumming Peter’s Guild acoustic as he wandered around the pad. There was a lot to take in, décor-wise, but Mike felt Stephen was a restless soul anyway. His dusty boots spoke of distance traveled and yet to run and those blue eyes were on new horizons, and not necessarily geographical ones. Peter, never too far behind were anything music was involved, was opening up Stephen’s guitar cases.

“A Martin?” Peter exclaimed, sitting back on his heels. “You got a Martin? You never said!”

“Check out the herringbone.” Stephen grinned. “Great sound. Deep bass.”

The wide, deep guitar interested Mike too. He’d heard them in country music combos where there was no bass instrument, backing up vocals, fiddles, and banjos, and remembered the powerful but smooth sound. And yet the Village was all about folk, wasn’t it? Peter opened the other case, smiling at the electric guitar it held before taking it out. This seemed more standard, a Guild that put Mike in mind of Duane Eddy.

Country instrument, rock and roll instrument, folk background, yet a latin kind of flavor to his strumming, that he did without a pick… Mike wouldn’t be so uncool as to ask Stephen what kind of sound he played, figuring he’d find out for himself before too long, the way their guest and Peter were all over the instruments.

But they were talking instruments more than playing, he discovered, going out to the sundeck a little later. Standing there without them noticing him allowed him to notice the differences between the two blond men. Peter was more muscular, although of course not stocky. Stephen had blue eyes, deceptively sleepy, as opposed to Peter’s lively brown. He had thinner hair, and was growing out bangs, maybe. Mike tried not to use the adjective _stringy_ , in contrast to Peter’s thick, bouncy hair, because that wasn’t fair. Maybe the guy had no money to spend on grooming. Lord knew they didn’t, more often than not, with Micky’s mom trimming his curls, Mike his own and Peter’s—if Peter let him—and Davy managing to date a stylist or beautician every couple of months.

“A 1958 Gretsch White Falcon and a Martin D-45,” Stephen said, playing a loud chord. “Oh, and a Ferrari.”

Nice wish list, Mike supposed. Add a twelve-string or two and a Lamborghini to it and he’d co-sign.

“Gonna have ’em in two years tops. And be opening at the Hollywood Bowl,” Stephen added.

Amusement at the guy’s confidence and certainty must have made Mike shift—Peter turned his head over his shoulder and glanced at him, seemingly able to see him in the shadows at the back of the deck, near the wall. He smiled. Well, he knew Mike’s habit of coming out here to wind down at this time of night, where more often than not Peter came to join him, so they both sat looking out over the dark sands and water, hardly speaking, just being companionable. And drinking herbal tea, Peter trying to find one that relaxed Mike enough for bed, combat his insomnia. Mike didn’t exactly feel…relaxed with Peter lounging around in pjs. And especially not those bunny pjs…

“Look at you two old timers!” Micky squeezed past Mike to the other two. “Stephen, first night in a new city—don’t you wanna go out? Check out the scene?”

“Nah. Got me a porch, just pass me my rocking chair. I’m getting old, man!” Stephen’s reply had Peter snorting a laugh. “I’m whacked,” Stephen admitted.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay.” Mike stepped forward. Didn’t want to lurk. “I came out to say.” Or spy.

“Good ol’ southern-boy manners.” Stephen played a dominant seventh.

“Texas.”

“Where?”

“Huston.”

“Dallas.” Stephen changed to a minor.

“Dall— You’re from Texas?”

“No. Born there,” Stephen corrected.

“Like Mike!” Micky dropped into a sit, like it was story time.

“But wouldn’t say I was from there,” Stephen finished.

“Where, then?” Mike asked.

“Florida, Louisiana, South America…we moved around some ’cause Pa was in the military.”

“Like Peter!” Micky threw in, looking from Mike to Peter. “Oh, so being a son of the south, you know what it means if Mike says bless your heart?”

Stephen laughed, rusty-sounding, and hit some sevenths and ninths, in triads.

Mike had to smile too. He yawned. “I’m gonna hit the hay. Busy day tomorrow. Night.”

“Night, Michael,” Peter replied, and Stephen, hand vertical, saluted with two fingers to his temple, the gesture more like he was tipping his hat.

Mike…kind of wondered how long the pair would stay up and what they’d talk about.


	6. November, 1965 part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be Peter smut but not Peter and Mike smut. Ye be warned!

Peter, who’d taken a quick, lukewarm, conserving-water shower, betting that Stephen would need a longer, hotter one, put Davy’s latest London scene magazine aside as the bedroom door opened a little cautiously.

“This place is insane!” Stephen almost howled, barrelling into the bedroom. “It’s gotta have more doors than a New Orleans brothel, man!”

“Which wrong door did you take?” Peter wondered.

“One into a fucken big garde-robe! Then I tried a stained glass one that wouldn’t open—y’all got a chapel attached to the side?—and then got turned around to go back out of the front door. Well, I tried…”

It’d be locked. And Michael’s instinct for when anyone used it after dark would activate, waking him, if he was asleep and making him come to check it was locked again—properly. Peter hid a grin, imagining Michael in his old night shirt, or equally old pajama pants vs. Stephen in his towel.

Stephen pulled the towel from his hips to rub at his wet hair, leaving him bare-assed. He had no hang-ups about nudity. Peter’s olfactory sense was still a little fritzed from the capsicum of the peppers earlier, so he couldn’t detect the scent of Stephen’s shampoo from where he lay in bed, but he betted it was the familiar hemp one, just as Stephen also smelled of that familiar toothpowder in the round tin. He believed both were medicinal, did him good, and wouldn’t be dissuaded. Stubborn. Stubborn as Davy. As Michael.

Stephen combed his hair into place with his fingers.

“Want a hair dryer?” Peter asked.

“Hair— LA turned you queer, boy?” Stephen flicked the towel at him before draping it over the bedroom’s one chair.

“Davy’s.” Peter indicated the chest of drawers near Stephen.

“This all his?” Stephen fingered a couple of jars of face and hand cream. “And he’s not queer.”

That made Peter smile. “No.”

“He a boxer?”

“He boxes, yes.” Davy did a lot of exercise and sport.

“Recognized the stance.”

“You would.”

“Huh?” Stephen stood from stowing his toiletries bag away in his pack.

“You’re both Capricorns.”

“Oh, man! It’s too late at night for all that woo-woo shit!” But Stephen grinned. He eyed Peter, who was sitting leaning back, displaying his chest. “So, you gettin’ any, cher?”

“Some.”

“This guy?” Stephen flicked back the blanket to expose the grappling clips protruding from Davy’s bed, clips that attached to the frame of Peter’s, making the singles into a double.

“No.”

“But you’re seeing someone?” He sat on the edge of Peter’s bed. "I recognize the signs."

“There’s…a guy I’ve got my eye on.”

Stephen’s impatient noise said Peter should have more body parts than his eye involved. “What about chicks? Not into any out here?”

“Oh yes.” He usually was. Peter didn’t believe in gender limits.

“Nice. Don’t tell me—small, brunette, and she plays music.”

Peter squirmed at Stephen’s finger poking him in his side and pushed his hand away. “Yeah. They both are and they both do. In the same group.”

“Cock a doodle-doo!” Stephen crowed. “’M’I gonna meet ’em?”

“I doubt it. You don’t dig their kind of music. I can't see your scenes crossing or connecting.”

Stephen was tapping a restless hand on his breastbone, the rhythm complicated, and Peter tried to catch it. “You holding?” Stephen asked.

Peter shook his head. Not for want of trying. He’d taken his guitar to Pop’s as an excuse to hang around, see if any of the local guys who dealt and could hook him up had come in—the small restaurant was getting more of a café vibe now, too, since they’d started playing there—but none had come in before he’d had to leave. He’d have gone to the café-bar in the Mall if he’d had more time, but reckoned Mike must have been frothing at the bit as it was. No point asking Stephen. He'd be smoking it if he had any.

“Oh-kaaay… So, you wanna hug?”

“We did that.” Peter liked making Stephen—people—work for it.

“A vertical hug.” Stephen did that eyebrow-waggle. “Think with the shower I’m less ripe or whatever the little Limey said.”

Peter wriggled down in the bed in invitation and wasn’t surprised when Stephen pushed Davy’s bed against his and hooked them together.

“Smooth. He does this a lot,” Stephen commented.

“Yeah. We got a hammock to string up in the den or on the deck for me, when he needs me gone and I don’t feel like the couch,” Peter explained. He belatedly wondered if he’d been supposed to make up Davy’s bed with clean linen for their guest. No; Davy’d make him do that after, leaving it fresh for him—and make Peter wash this set. He grinned, moving over for Stephen’s naked body to push itself alongside his, taking the opportunity to check for any changes to the once-familiar look and feel and scent of Stephen.

“Oh, _man_!” Stephen fought a wriggle at Peter’s nose in his neck and gave him a push, so he was lying flat for Stephen to swing his top half over, be on top of. “Forgot you did that weird sniffing thing.”

“Missed me?” Peter had saved examining Stephen’s face for last.

“Like a hole in the head, cher. Like a pain in the tooth. An itch in the butt.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yeah. I did. But…you’re okay, here? Things are fine?”

Stephen was still no better at articulating his feelings. Who did that remind Peter of? “Yes. Good, in fact. And you’re okay?”

“Oh yeah.” Stephen examined his face. “Oh, you wanna rap first?”

“A bit.” Peter would have said that even if he didn’t. And not just because he tended toward bratty with guys like Stephen, but because Stephen was impatient. Always. Except when working on his music. He could and did spend hours on the same chords, or progression, or just playing along to records, focusing on his technique.

“I’m glad you made it out here,” he said, pressing into Stephen, letting him know—if he’d had doubts—that he was as nude as him. Stephen was supposed to have come out to LA last year, when Peter did. Except, Peter had thought at the time and since, that would have implied too much of a commitment. If not exactly to Peter or their togetherness, such as it was, then to some prospect of a joint future. Stephen’s backing out, changing his plans, taking another route, hadn’t surprised him overmuch.

“Aw, wittle Petey been missing me?” Stephen traced Peter’s face with a finger, touching the button mole above his lip and the dimple in his cheek.

His mockery of emotion didn’t surprise Peter either. “Yeah. I have. I do. And you’ll be able to get by?”

“You’re worried about me now?” Stephen’s surprise was genuine. “Sure. I got enough contacts to get session work, or back-up work, and you know the practice I got in hustling for café gigs—”

“Club. Club slots here, more than cafes. On the Strip, along the Boulevards—”

“Whatever, man! Heh, and who knows, I might even audition for parts in TV and movies now I’m in La-La Land! Just until the group hits it big, which won't be long."

The group he hadn't formed yet. With a guy who didn't know anything about it, wasn't expecting Stephen... Peter had no doubt he'd make it happen, and that had him grinning again.

"So…enough chat? You wanna fool around?”

“Sure.” He’d gotten Stephen to talk more than he’d thought he would, so Peter felt victorious. Magnanimous. Horny, as he usually did in bed with Stephen.

With an “ _Halle-fucken-luiah!_ ” Stephen slid a hand into Peter’s hair, squeezing and clenching in that casual _I know you_ way that danced a thrill along Peter’s spine, and brought his face to Peter’s. His hair, still wet, fell over them, wrapping them in the damp-rope smell of the hemp shampoo, not quite as earthy-yet-sweet as dope, a scent Peter associated with Stephen.

Stephen kissed the way he always had and probably always would—forceful, taking the lead, his tongue down his partner’s throat, his old-fashioned toothpowder making his flavor more aniseed than mint. He eased off a little for Peter to lick inside his mouth and feel around his jagged teeth in a way he didn’t allow anyone else to, Peter didn’t think. He pulled back and leaned his folded forearms on Peter’s torso, close enough to his windpipe for Peter to feel it, to look at him through sleepy blue eyes.

“You look good, cher. Really hot, you know? Well, hotter.” He blew in Peter’s face, maybe as a play on words. “LA suits you.”

 _Here suits me_ , Peter thought but didn’t say, just smiling his thanks before pulling Stephen in by the back of his neck to kiss some more, the two pressing close to exchange deep, open-mouthed kisses that had them both hard, and Peter thrusting against Stephen, trying to align their cocks without using his hand, enjoying the sensation of rubbing against another guy. He’d always enjoyed that, and it’d been a while.

Stephen lay stiller, letting Peter do the work, and within minutes, the hand Stephen had speared into Peter’s hair had slackened and his face fell down into the crook of Peter’s neck. Even though he was aroused, Peter was fine with an exhausted Stephen sleeping like that, wondering how many days the guy had been awake, and ran his hand down Stephen’s bony spine, giving a brief squeeze to his still fine ass before bringing his hand back up.

Before he could rub Stephen’s neck or cradle the back of his head, Stephen had slid free of him, to slide onto his back. He did that, moved away in his sleep, whereas Peter liked to cuddle. Davy didn’t. Micky did, with him, sometimes, even out in the den when watching TV or listening to music, smoking dope or not. He had good instincts and sensed when it wasn’t a time to go further…which didn’t mean he didn’t push it. Stephen and Davy being non-cuddlers: was it a Capricorn trait? Then that would make Michael…

Peter debated getting himself off or letting his cock detumesce like Stephen’s, as he slept. Sleep was overtaking him too, stealing away any need to decide. Peter pressed closer to Stephen’s unconscious body, so they were lying with their sides touching, at least, and Peter’s foot hooked over Stephen’s. Peter slept.

***

“Hey.”

Peter placed the voice behind him and the breath in his ear at once. He’d slept deeply and well—he liked sharing a bed, being close to someone while sleeping. “Hey back.”

“You…up?”

“I’m awake, if that’s what you mean.”

With a, “Nope, don’t mean that…” Stephen stole a slim hand around to check if Peter was …up.

Peter laughed, turning. Stephen looked better, rested and the shadows under his eyes lighter. “I am now.” So was he.

“Wanna fool around?”

If Peter had been expecting an apology for Stephen falling asleep on him, he’d have been an idiot.

“I’m horny,” Stephen added, pushing his crotch into Peter in demonstration.

“Sure you’re not a Scorpio?” Peter half meant it, was half trying to prod Stephen.

“Man, it is too _early_ for that woo-woo shit!” Stephen protested.

“But not too early for this?” Peter slid a hand down to Stephen’s cock. He wondered what time it actually was.

“Heh, never.” Stephen wriggled a hand into Peter’s crotch. “Bet you want your dick sucked, right?”

“Usually, yeah.” That hadn’t been the most romantic of offers, but Peter did love getting head. Well, what guy didn’t? Stephen loved it too. Something in Stephen’s expression caught at him. “What, really?”

“Yeah. I’m in a giving mood.”

“What, you think you’ve got to sing for your supper? Or rather, breakfast?”

Stephen barked out a laugh. He took a firm grip of Peter’s cock. “I sure as hell ain’t _singing_ to it, man. Might hum, but that’s the limit, you get me?” He curled his other hand around Peter’s neck and pulled him in for a long kiss, not so much reacquainting himself with Peter and Peter with him—they’d done that last night—as…setting the baseline, Peter felt. Or bass line. His mouth turning up in a grin turned the kiss weird, and Stephen pressed tightly into him, making Peter’s dick pulse against his.

Before he could arch into Stephen, he’d slid down the bed and taken the head of Peter’s erection between his lips. He teased for a moment or two, playing the tip of his tongue into the slit, licking up the pre-cum. “You’re still as easy to get goin’,” he commented, sending up a crooked-toothed smile.

Peter bucked his hips, a not-so gentle signal that Stephen should return to work, get down to business and he did, sliding his lips slowly down Peter’s length, pausing a little sadistically, pulling back, pausing longer, then diving back down again, faster, all the way to the hilt, all wet, tight constriction. Peter jack-knifed, thinking for a moment he was going to come right there and then. And wouldn’t Stephen have crowed about that?

Stephen backed off a little and ringed the base of Peter’s dick with his fingers, staving off any climax. “Said you were gettin’ some—guess you didn’t mean on the regular, huh?”

“Or you’re just _that_ good at this,” Peter countered.

“Heh, true…” Stephen sank his lips down Peter’s dick again and this time scraped at the base with his teeth, not keeping his touch gentle for long, making Peter’s body buck and pulling a groan from deep in his throat. _Jesus._ Stephen giving him head was sexy as hell in itself, and when he did _that_ , and then sucked long and hard and deep, his well-exercised throat muscles working… _Fuck._ Peter grabbed at Stephen’s hair and arched into his mouth.

“Yeah.” His mouth full of Peter’s cock, Stephen answered a question that hadn’t been asked, or maybe gave an affirmation. He pushed his hands under Peter’s ass and cupped the cheeks, pulling him up to suck harder, making Peter thrash under him. He hummed, low and steady, the vibrations adding to the onslaught of sensations he was bombarding Peter with, and Peter had to shove a fist into his mouth and bite down, to muffle the shout he gave as he came, flooding Stephen’s mouth.

It was an embarrassingly big load, but Stephen swallowed it all, showing off by holding him tight throughout to lick every last drop, sitting back on his heels afterward and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was slutty. It was dirty. It was _glorious_. Seized, taken, sated, Peter grinned his thanks.

“Told you you look hot, right?”

Peter nodded, wondering what—

“Man, I really wanna fuck you.”

As before, it wasn’t the world’s most flowery declaration, but again, it fired Peter. Or maybe wanting to off-balance Stephen did that. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah? Yeah?” The word came out as big as Stephen’s jagged grin. “LA musta worked some magic on you, cher! Gonna need lube. And plenty of it.”

Peter, still lying under Stephen, tilted his head at the nightstand, and was rocked by Stephen reaching over to yank the top drawer open.

“Ya got plenty condoms. Show you a trick I picked up if we were usin’ ’em and you were doing me…” He waited for Peter’s full attention. “Roll one on ya using my mouth. Look ma, no hands…”

His stream of words worked a little to calm Peter’s nerves, but his heart was thudding hard when Stephen, kneeling on the mattress, winked at him before pulling him flat. Peter’s ass was elevated on Stephen’s knees and his legs wound around Stephen’s waist.

“Up,” Stephen commented, raising Peter’s hips a little higher, giving him clear access. He lubed his fingertips and, too horny and impatient for finesse, for gentle circling of Peter’s hole, for teasing, fluttering touches, held eye contact as he eased one, then two fingers inside him.

They’d done this before, more than once, but Peter still gasped at the blunt force of the intrusion. Stephen pushed deeper, over his prostate, making him arch. “Ain’t forgot how much you get off on getting fingered,” he commented, lubing his dick with his free hand. “Way you dig that, you’re gonna go _crazy_ getting that ass fucked.” _Finally_ hung in the air. Stephen, lube thrown aside, guiding himself toward Peter’s ass, paused at the entrance, dick in hand. “Or have you—”

“No.” Peter stilled.

“No as in haven’t and I’m the first?” Stephen rubbed the head of his erect dick on Peter’s hole. “The one who’s gonna make you scream from the rooftops?”

“No as in no, sorry, I can’t.” Peter yanked a leg free and twisted his body away.

Stephen let him. “Huh. Well, no big.” He moved slow enough for Peter to stop him, to move away, even off the bed. But Peter didn’t. Didn’t want to. Was happy for Stephen to turn him over, up onto his hands and knees and position himself behind him. He liked Stephen stroking the length of his erect dick along his crack, pausing at his hole to make Peter shiver, and along his taint, gliding over his sac. His touch was both tantalizing and economical—within minutes he’d come, collapsing against Peter. He wasn’t heavy but his weight pinned Peter, and they both wriggled so they were lying on their sides, Stephen sticking to him with his own cum, an arm thrown over him as they recovered.

The door opened. “And _then_ guess what she did—” Davy, speaking half over his shoulder to someone behind him stopped abruptly when he saw them.

“What? What did she do?” begged Micky’s voice.

“Tell you in a minute.” Davy made sure he was blocking the doorway. “Be out in a sec.” And blocking it more when he closed and locked the door, Micky on the other side of it.

Peter slid onto his back, Stephen copying him, both of them staring up at Davy. “Davy, don’t—” Peter started.

“Won’t,” Davy assured him. He looked from one to another and wrinkled his nose, taking in the scene, with all its attendant scents. “But _you_ are gonna wash—”

“Your bed clothes? Sure.”

“ _All_ my clothes and iron them. For a month. I don’t wanna have to mess with washing powder, much less set foot in the launderette or so much as _see_ the ironing board.” He raised a finger, holding it until Peter nodded. A thump sounded at the door. “Yeah!” Davy yelled at Micky, presumably the thumper. “Surfers are out, for some reason, so we’re going out too. Fancy it? If you’ve got any energy…”

“Enough to take you on.” Stephen took the invite as a challenge.

“We’ll see.” Davy’s smirk was visible in the mirror as he automatically checked himself out while grabbing something from a drawer. “Or not.” He was careful to only open the bedroom door a crack as he left.

“You didn’t lock the door last night.” Peter didn’t bother making it a question. Stephen never locked doors.

“Slick.” Stephen shook his head. “Smooth. Oh, ain’t talking about your ass. Although that is. And your back. Left a helluva mess…”

Peter hit him with a pillow, and Stephen grabbed it and hit him back.

“Way he made you his coolie…” Stephen gave a whistle at Davy’s prowess as he left for the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder and not wrapped around his midriff.

Peter only hoped Mike wasn’t around, or Micky lurking, on the upstairs landing, say, with his camera.

***

“He gonna keep his mouth shut?” Stephen asked a little later, down on the sand, jerking his head at Davy, his question masked by the pounding of the waves and the whip of the wind. “Not that I give a rat’s ass.”

Peter nodded. Davy would and did—about a good few things. It was one of the things Peter liked best about him. And he did, his only slight reference to it an hour or so later. Stephen, not such a skilled surfer or strong swimmer as the rest of them but one who’d insisted on keeping up with them, pulled himself grunting and shaky-armed onto the rocks that were the ocean equivalent of the make-out rocks on shore.

“That your type, then?” Davy leaned across from where he was afloat-paddling on his board to Peter on his and made a tiny gesture over at the rocks. “The stubborn sort?”

 _Like you._ Peter was reminded of the earlier conversation on the subject.

“And that other geezer, your holiday hook-up, he the same?” Davy continued.

“Capricorn!” Peter exclaimed. Ezra was!

“Me too. You fancy me, then? Well, who doesn’t?” Davy had no time to preen before Peter tipped him off his board, then scrabbled over to and onto the rock to escape.

Stephen helped him up. “I’m a sailor not a swimmer.” He was talking to Micky, who looked from him to Peter, taking in how alike they looked sitting back, resting on their hands behind them, with their wet hair off their faces. “Man, I can’t wait until I got a boat.”

“What would you call it?” Peter was curious.

“After you.” Stephen’s answer came promptly.

“Huh?” Davy, making them move over to give him room to climb up, didn’t get it.

“Heh. I got it all worked out—sure-fire way to get chicks on it. Just imagine coming onto a chick you met or know: ‘Ya gotta come out on my boat with me! See, I named it _After You_ …’”

Peter winced.

Davy frowned. “That’s…not a half-bad idea, that. It could apply to other vehicles too…”

Peter winced harder, but then laughed. He was curious to see what the rest of the day might bring, not to mention that evening, with three Capricorns in the mix.


	7. November, 1965 part three

“Wow.” Micky set Mike’s teeth on edge the way he scraped the pot, freeing any last remnant of stuck-on meat—or _sucs_ , apparently; they had a name—and liberating them into his mouth. And that after he’d had seconds of the dish. “That was _great_. Jambalaya, you said? Thanks, Stephen!”

“Southwestern Louisiana Cajun jambalaya. Oh, weren’t nothing,” Stephen demurred.

Oh, but it was, Mike thought. Lunch that’d taken so long to prepare and cook that it was no longer lunch but an early-bird dinner? A dish that’d stunk out the pad in cooking for what felt like hours and burnt out their only decent cast-iron pot?

“Just to say thanks for lettin’ me crash here.” Stephen shrugged.

Mike would have thanked him a lot more if he’d provided the ingredients himself instead of ransacking their store of vegetables and raiding the housekeeping jar for the meat and whatever else they didn’t have. Oh, and not used up a week’s supply of rice. And Mike would have _really_ thanked him if he’d cleaned up after, done the dishes.

He tried to hide his scowl as he scrubbed at the burnt pot, wishing he’d been in this morning to supervise, but he’d had a very early…commitment, was one way of putting it. He had the same tomorrow and hoped he’d been vague enough mentioning helping out at the garage, even though he hadn’t been there in months, that none of the others could or would take him up on it. What he was engaged in was stressful enough so yeah, he could’ve done without this. There was no need for this.

And had there been any need to slap Peter’s ass the way Stephen had, wanting him out of the kitchen and his way? Or for Peter to have jumped like that, exclaiming in mock-pain, clutching and rubbing his tush. And definitely not for Stephen to have made some stupid comment about he wasn’t kissing it better, Pete would have to find someone else to do that, and shouldn’t be a problem, didn’t he have his eye on someone? And—

Mike stopped his litany to listen to the jam session on the podium. Well, the guys were filling in time—they could hardly rehearse with Mike stuck at the sink. And he could hardly play with all that mess. He’d wondered what Stephen’s style was, but even listening, wasn’t much the wiser about Stephen’s fingerpicking technique. Yeah, his thumb was slapping out a rhythm while his fingers picked out a melody, but there was so much more going on. Was he playing the melody's accompanying chords and bass notes simultaneously? Such a distinctive tone— Mike was drawn over, leaving the pot in soak and most of the dishes to drain on the rack.

“I…don’t get your tuning, man,” he had to admit after listening to rich, deep and well, _sexy_ , progressions. He pointed at the guitar’s pegs.

Stephen smirked and Peter answered. “No one does. Including him!”

“We’d better rehearse, go through the set list.” Mike looked from one to another of the band. “Gig tonight. One of our regulars,” he added for Stephen’s benefit.

“What club?”

“Alice’s,” he answered Stephen. “Off the Strip.”

“ _Well_ off. Santa Monica Boulevard. But nearer to the Strip than we got so far.” Micky added the last perhaps at the look on Mike’s face, beating a tattoo on his snare and finishing with a cymbal clash. “So, ballads?”

Davy let out those strange gargles that were his warm-up exercises. Yeah, he needed to be in good voice—the teenage clientele there demanded a lot of sappy numbers, his forte. _But we_ are _farther up the Boulevard than we were at the Basement. Getting nearer to Sunset, and the Strip._ Mike held tight to the thought.

“What?” he asked defensively catching Stephen’s expression as Davy sang _I Wanna Be Free_. Yeah, it was a little—or a lot—wistful for Mike’s taste, but a crowd pleaser. And he kinda dug the sparse acoustic guitars and how it sounded with a harpsichord, when Peter played the one in the music shop.

Stephen leaned forward over his guitar, scowling, his eyes hard. “I didn’t say nothing.”

“You got something to say, say it.” That came out more combative than Mike intended. Stephen looked to have a good understanding of music, something akin to Peter’s perhaps, as though he’d studied it, maybe, and Mike wouldn’t turn down fresh insight. “All I’m saying is, you got a suggestion, I’m listening.”

Davy and Peter were listening in too, seeming invested in the exchange, and Mike turned to frown at them.

“Well…” Stephen shook back his hair. “If you wanted to rock that up a little, I got a couple thoughts. Pete, take organ? Micky, you know the lyrics?”

They both nodded, intrigued.

“I like it!” Micky declared a half-hour later, when they’d crafted and gone through a more up-tempo version of the song.

“You would.” Davy’s tone held the sourness of someone who’d had Micky stepping all over his number, alternating verses with him and taking the middle eight.

“It could work as an alternative during the set and Davy singing it as usual to close.” Peter was in peacemaker gear. “You know we have to play that number twice or even more— Because this younger crowd loves it,” he finished, jumping over himself before Mike could jump on some perceived slight on their lack of material and come out swinging that the others were all free to write too and—

“They do? Even with those lyrics?”

It was Mike’s turn to dish out the hard stare, directing it Stephen-ward. But he had a point. The song was about Davy’s approach to life—even if the l’il biscuit didn’t realize it—and yeah, the lyrics weren’t the usual moon-in-June drivel you’d expect in such a soft-sounding song: Mike’s way of reconciling his artistry with having to compose with their audiences in mind.

“It’s written to market,” he tried to explain without excusing. “We ain’t quite in the position of writing for ourselves and our fans eager for each new turn yet.”

Stephen’s gaze on Mike was as steady as Mike’s tone to him had been and he didn’t speak.

“So what’s _your_ , I don’t know, philosophy of music?” Mike challenged Stephen.

“Hell if I got a philosophy, man!” Stephen rusted out a laugh. “You mean the genre I’m creating in, or even creating? Folk music with electric guitars. Folk rock.”

Huh. Mike had given a lot of thought to the melding of country and rock, country rock.

“And I think…” Stephen twisted his head around over his shoulder as the door opened and a figure entered. His eyes widened. “You got groupies? Who make house calls? Or did someone order up a pretty blonde?”

“That’s not a pretty blonde—that’s Toby!” Micky protested. She tended to appear when they were playing.

“Hey!” Toby exclaimed.

Stephen laughed. “Get yourself outta that one, little drummer boy.”

“Help me?” Micky begged the group at large, to no avail. “Toby, you are a pretty blonde, of course you are. Word on the street is you’re the prettiest blonde in Beechwood. If there was a Beechwood Blonde Babe award, you’d walk it, for sure, right, guys? Just, we—”

“Whatever you’re gonna say, speak for yourself,” Davy threw in.

“ _I_ don’t see you like that.” Micky amended, wiping his forehead.

“Oh, because I’m part of the group!” Toby nodded. “One of the guys.”

“You…ain’t a guy,” Stephen told her, giving up his seat to her.

“Did I miss rehearsal? You never seem to let me know the times! But don’t worry—I got my stage clothes with me for the gig,” Toby assured them. “What color shirt is tonight?”

Mike closed his eyes, trying not to feel like Ricky Ricardo. ‘Lucy’, or Toby, did seem to think she was part of the band, since performing, or rather dancing, with them. He was trying to slide her into the role of mascot, or good luck charm, or anything that didn’t involve her taking up space on the stage with her dancing and throwing their sound off-balance by crooning what she thought were back-up vocals into a mic.

“Stage clothes? Y’all wear stage costumes?” Stephen almost choked, Micky-style, at the thought.

“I made my own,” Toby told him. “I designed them myself, too. Based on the boys’ band uniform.”

“ _Band uniform?_ Oh, this gets better’n’better!” Stephen wiped his streaming eyes. “Ya got hats with feathers, and shiny gold buttons?”

“Mine’s a micro-skirt and thigh boots,” Toby broke in. “I had to get something the weird clothing store I went to called ‘fetish boots’ that were long enough to cover the gap above my knees where the skirt came too short, you know?”

At least that shut him up. Mike felt quite well-disposed toward Toby, even if he had agreed with her father that her homemade skirt looked more like a scarf. God, was he getting old?

Stephen hung out with Toby during the bustle of them casing their instruments and loading up the Monkeemobile, which had his mouth falling open and his eyes popping out. “Call me crazy, but I think I’ll go with the blonde in the T-Bird,” he announced. “I can’t decide if the Pontiac’s cool or cheesy. And the whole thing’s kinda making me feel I’m going off to camp.”

“It’s ice-cool, man!” declared Micky, drums stored, vaulting into the back seat.

“Yeah, it’s just _us_ that’s camp,” Davy quipped, shaking his tambourine beside him.

“Hey.” Peter, in the front passenger seat, nudged Mike where he stood in the drive staring after Toby’s departing car. It took Peter tapping Mike’s hand to make him realize he’d curled it into a fist and was tense. “Don’t get uptight about things. About him. He’s just…Stephen.” He laughed.

Mike nodded, willing a smile onto his face. He was just a little aback, he supposed, by this ruder, louder, Southern version of Peter. No, perhaps more confused, maybe, by the guy being both casual and calculated, his musical vision so wide-ranging, yet so focused.

The casual part was in evidence in the tiny backstage dressing room at the club, where Stephen wandered in when they were nearly ready, smoking a joint. He held it out to Peter who took a massive hit from it but didn’t take it, instead twisting Stephen’s hand for him to hold it while Peter bent his head to it. The move looked practiced, an automatic reflex, even. Mike cleared his throat.

“It’s mild,” Peter informed him.

“Guess even the pot’s a little tame, this far from the Strip.” Stephen held out the joint to Michael.

“Not before…” Mike let it trail off. Mr. Uncool. Even more so when he raised an eyebrow at Micky, just in case he had any thought of indulging this early in the evening.

“You got a work ethic. I respect that.”

“But not the method, right? Like, not playing this sort of place.”

Taking up a guitar, Stephen shrugged.

“Huh, you should’ve seen where we started!” Micky exclaimed.

“Not helping,” Davy muttered to Micky, shoving him toward the door. “We’d better see if we can find Toby. Stephen seems to have lost her. Or traded her in for some smokes…”

“Micky’s got the right of it, though.” Mike just had to poke away at it, like sticking the tip of the tongue into a sore tooth. “We paid our dues. Still paying them, yeah, to get to the bigger, better venues here in LA.”

“Well, fuck that up the ass!” Stephen hit a jarring chord. “Way I see it, I put in my time back in the Village, like Pete did, like you musta done back in Texas, right? So no way am I starting at the bottom again, man! I’m going in big and hot, right to the top.”

“What, the Whisky a Go Go?” Mike mocked.

“By way of the Troubadour, yeah. That’s my plan. By this time next year.”

“With the group you don’t have yet,” Peter added, leaning in over Mike’s shoulder, literally, resting his chin on his elbow that he had propped on Mike’s shoulder. They all tended to lean on one another, so much so that it was almost normal to Mike, but Stephen pulled his head back, his gaze tracking from Mike to Peter and back again. His heavy eyelids came down, narrowing his eyes

“Ah. I’m making someone jealous.”

“Envious.” Peter cut in before Mike could reply to that, maybe ask the guy what he meant. “Not jealous. Technically.”

There was a beat, and then Stephen huffed out a laugh. “I guess I learned that in school—fuck knows I went to enough—but for me _envie_ means craving. It’s a local word. So, yeah. Fits. Glad to be of service.”

And before Mike could even _begin_ to decipher that, it was time to go on. Whatever it was Stephen had a craving for, if that was what he’d meant, it made him restless, all through their first set. Well, he’d hardly be likely to find kindred spirits here in this teenybop place. He bore Peter off in the interval, vanished when they took the stage again, and reappeared after with Toby—who hadn’t performed with them, to Mike’s relief—and another blonde Mike vaguely knew.

“The Pit,” Stephen announced. “Full name the Pit and the Pendulum? Known as the Hole.” It amused him. Well, something was making him laugh.

“That dive bar right up on Cahuenga? It’s…kinda rough,” Mike answered, checking over his twelve-string before casing it.

“Sold!” Stephen clapped his hands together. “Let’s go there, huh? I was just hearing about it—it’s open real late, or early, and get a decent strain there, for one thing.”

 _True_ , Peter’s nod and shrug said.

“And it’s got pub games,” Stephen continued. “Where I could whop Davy’s ass at arrows—”

“Darts,” Davy corrected, busy at the mirror.

“And bar billiards—”

“Pool. And you couldn’t.” He finished seeing to his face and turned.

“Oh, I so could. Wanna bet?”

“Yes.” Davy’s smile was sharklike.

“No.” Everyone turned to Mike. “I got an early start.”

“The garage again? Big project,” Peter commented, brushing against Mike, making him flinch a little.

“Yeah. Slow going.” Mike ducked his head.

“And tough going. You’re bruised and banged up.”

Mike was startled. Peter had noticed? “Huh, yeah,” he said, saying anything not to let the silence linger. He fought not to hide his bruised knuckles or draw attention to his sore side. “Guess I’m not used to physical work, anymore. Doing me good to get back to it.” He busied himself checking the room for stuff they might have missed.

“So, we going where there’s cheap beer and even cheaper women?” Stephen asked the room at large.

“Hey!” Toby hit his arm. “That’s not my scene.”

“Ya gotta come, blondie. I need a ride there.” Stephen winked at her.

“And it has to be tonight?” Peter queried.

“Yeah.” Stephen chewed his lip. “I gotta feeling, man.”

The discussion continued out in the parking lot and during the loading up. “Look, I’m driving the Monkeemobile home.” Mike jangled the keys. “Anyone who wants to come back to the pad, it’s now.”

“ _Miiiike…_ ” Micky whined.

“Up to you, sport.” Mike blinked as Micky vaulted into the passenger seat of the Thunderbird, then over into the back at Stephen’s thumb jerk. Stephen, taking the driver’s seat, evidently preferred a blonde by his side.

“Well, I…I guess we’ll see you later.” Peter made for the car too.

“Peter.” Mike stopped him with a hand on his arm. He lowered his voice. “Could you…keep an eye on things, huh?”

By _things_ , Peter understood _the others_. Well, Micky. Toby. Davy could handle himself, and Mike wouldn’t even begin to consider Stephen in that light.

“What, they got curfew?” Stephen scoffed.

“ _Yes!_ ” Mike exclaimed in exasperation. “Under the law here, they do!”

“And the door’s locked at midnight? Got school tomorrow? Polished an apple for teacher?” Stephen continued.

Peter wondered how long it would be before Davy let Stephen know he wasn’t amused.

“Pete?” Mike repeated.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there. And I won’t have much to drink,” Peter replied. “You know that.”

“He ain’t saying nothing about too much to smoke!” Stephen called over.

“Watch out, Micky—seems Stephen’s a comedian too,” Peter mocked. “Michael…it’s okay. Really.” If it’d been Micky or Davy, Peter would have stroked their face in farewell, but now he just watched Michael driving off before turning to the clown car the six of them were making Toby’s T-Bird into.

“Why’d I get Davy in my lap?” Micky whined the entire drive up through West Hollywood.

“Just be thankful I’m not charging you,” Davy replied, to Micky’s confusion, when they tumbled out, finding a place to park on Cahuenga south of Franklin.

Stephen paused outside the small entrance on the dingy street where one of the bar’s vertical neon signs was on the fritz, its lower half not illuminated, making it read COCK. “Promising,” he observed laughing himself stupid. He nudged Peter. “You been here before?”

Peter…tried not to find a connection between the sign and the question. “Once. Maybe twice.”

Stephen flung the door open. “Hey! Smell that?”

“Is that beer?” Toby wrinkled her nose.

“Cheap beer and good dope. This place _rocks_!” Stephen declared

“And a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ ID policy—it sure does! Micky bounded up to the bar in the dimly lit interior. Peter started after him, to be stopped by Stephen grabbing his sleeve.

“You his father, cher? Big brother watching him?”

Peter bit back a remark about _1984_ being the only book Stephen had read voluntarily. Well, that and _Clockwork Orange_. As he hesitated, Stephen looped a hand around his neck and pulled his head down to kiss his forehead. “Let’s make some _noise_!”

There was a lot of noise already in the place, whose faded brick walls, exposed ceiling beams and mix of vintage fixtures shared a style with the pad, although their house was a lot cleaner and not quite as loud. Well… It wasn’t exactly Peter’s scene. He preferred to relax, to rap if he hadn’t gone someplace for the music, and this place didn’t lend itself to that. Still, people watching was always interesting. Stephen pushed a fistful of change into the jukebox for Toby and Lisa to dance and nudged Peter to go get a couple draught beers while he commandeered a pool table.

When Peter made his way over to them, Davy was examining the sticks. Cues, Peter remembered Davy called them.

“Spoiled for choice?” Peter asked, setting the glasses down and taking a long sip of his. He winced. Yep, the beer was cheap for a reason.

Davy downed half a beer in one smooth swallow and looked from Peter to Stephen, who was bent over, taking a few practice shots. “I’d say so are you…but you’ve made yours. Want any help with a Dear John? I’ve had practice writing ’em, and Mick’s received a good few.” He smirked around his glass, then wiped his face blank, as if he’d said nothing, so Peter had nothing to dish out retribution to.

Their game started and gathered spectators and Peter watched for a while too before instinct had him peering around for Micky in time to leap forward and pull him back from where he would have crossed the path of the darts game at their side. Sharp weapons—and blunt instruments—in a place where alcohol was served? Peter would never understand bars.

“Hey, I’ve just been to the bathroom,” Micky announced at the table.

“Congratu-fucken-lations,” drawled Stephen, squinting from the smoke of the joint hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“And you write your name on the wall there!”

“Huh? Like…” Davy mimed peeing at a high trajectory.

“No, in thick marker pen! It’s so cool! Ya gotta, like, know someone in the know to get one, but I …acquired one and added my name to the wall—”

He squeaked a little as Stephen, pool stick abandoned and eyes narrowed, advanced on him and snatched the pen he was flipping end over end. He was soon back, a look of triumph on his face, and clapped Micky on the shoulder as he slotted the pen in his top pocket for him. A whistle and a wave had a waitress coming over with a pitcher of beer that Stephen gave to Micky with a bow.

“Hey!” Peter took it and poured some into everyone’s glass. No way should Micky have that amount of even this weak beer. Peter had younger brothers, ones who were beer monsters, given half a chance, and knew the consequences.

“Hey hey hey!” Micky took the jug back and cradled it, sticking a straw into what was left and slurping to establish possession.

“Can’t a guy celebrate?” Stephen asked, sinking a striped ball.

Peter, idly wondering what they were celebrating, didn’t have long to wonder before a tall, skinny dark-haired guy all in black came up to Stephen and peered at him, right in his face, a face that Stephen’s triumphant grin now stretched wide.

“I _knew_ it! I fucken _knew_ it!” Stephen crowed, embracing the guy tight.

“Is…that the guy he was looking for? The guy he came to LA for?” Micky stared, bug-eyed. “And Stephen wrote something on the wall for him and he found him? Woah!”

“Like magic,” Peter replied mainly to see how Micky dealt with a mention of that topic.

“Well, he had a feeling, right?”

“He had a feeling,” Peter confirmed.

“So did I.” Davy took a last shot and potted his last, and winning, ball. “A feeling that I’d win twenty bucks.” He prodded Stephen in the back where he was deep in conversation with the guy.

“I don’t got twenty dollars to spare,” Stephen said over his shoulder. He turned, tugging his wallet free of his pocket and showed its contents. “Sure, there’s a dub in here, but it’s my last twenty in the world. You wouldn’t take it, would you, man?”

“No,” replied Davy after a pause. “We’ll change it at the bar, I’ll take ten and you can owe me the rest. Via a written, signed, witnessed IOU.”

All in all, Peter was happy when they left—after they’d doubled back again for Toby, Lisa having left…with Davy, Peter thought. At least, he was gone too—and were heading for home at a late or early hour. Driving Toby’s car, he kept checking that the long black car was still behind them— Stephen’s friend and fellow bandmate and housemate, even if the guy didn’t know it yet, was following them back to the pad…in his _hearse_ , for Stephen to pick up his stuff.

“I don’t think I feel so good.” Micky, still clutching a pitcher, moaned as he fell out of the T-Bird in the drive. Luckily the pitcher was empty. “Guess I had a few too many Beer Nuts, huh?”

“Yeah, that’ll be it. You’re over the limit on peanuts.” Peter propped Micky upright while getting the door open. He didn’t expect Stephen to help him, even though Stephen had contributed to Micky’s wrecked state: Stephen was gathering his things together for the move to Topanga. Peter and Stephen crisscrossed paths in the pad, with Peter leading Micky to the kitchen to help him drink water and then to the john where, yeah, he helped him pass water, and Stephen toing and froing from the downstairs bedroom. A little blitzed, he was carrying one item at a time out to Neil’s car.

“Peter!” Micky suddenly shouted. “Am I dead? There’s a hearse in the drive!”

“No, you’re not dead.” Peter blew his bangs away from his sweating brow. For all Micky was skinny, he was tough to wrangle. “You’re in the downstairs bedroom. See? I’m putting you in Davy’s—in my bed.”

Davy might come home in the early or earlier hours and wouldn’t be amused to find Micky snoring and slobbering under his sheets. Peter had to think to recall he’d changed both sets of bed linen. He helped Micky undress, no easy feat with Micky’s giggles and wriggles at being tickled as he was stripped, then drew his attention to the tumbler of water on the nightstand.

“Peter!” Micky’s voice was still as loud. “We should do this again some time!”

“What—” _Part_ , he’d started to ask, but Micky was asleep, still holding on to the pitcher, perhaps in lieu of his Ted now. Peter slid it from his loose fingers and placed it on the floor at the side of the bed. Micky, if he needed to, would figure out its new use. Well, not that new: it would technically still be a receptacle, and for liquid… He wandered out to the cars where Stephen was closing the doors on the last of his gear.

“Hey.” Peter leaned against the hood and held out a baggie. “Got you a housewarming present.”

“Much obliged!” Stephen mimed tipping his hat—wouldn’t be long before he started wearing one, Peter felt—and shoved the pot into a pocket. He looked at Peter.

Peter looked back. “What.”

“Come with me.”

“ _What?_ ”

Stephen scowled. “You heard me. Come with me to the new pad. Plenty room—”

“I got plenty room here,” Peter interrupted, interested in how far he could push this.

Stephen folded his arms. He hated ‘emotional shit.’ “Join the group. Yeah, I know you got a group here”—he jerked his head toward the pad—“but mine’s gonna be bigger and better. And you can play guitar, six-string, twelve-string, pedal steel, not just bass.”

“This is my choice. One I made.” Peter kept his voice gentle and stroked a hand down Stephen’s face.

“A limit you imposed.”

“I’m not limited,” Peter replied.

“Hm. Not with what you got your eye on, you mean?”

There was no way Stephen could be _jealous_ , was there? Peter used his hands to unfoled Stephen's arms for him. “We tried once, remember? Things…didn’t work then.” He left the rest of the sentence unsaid and let it sink in. “I’m committed here now.”

 _To what I have now, which is a more secure life than I had before, in the Village._ A life which Stephen would probably replicate in LA, with another, different group of musicians. Peter wasn’t about to go through that again, not even just for the twelve-month period Stephen claimed was all it would take. He shrugged. “I’ve moved on.”

“Ya got family here.” Stephen’s rasp of a laugh sounded genuine. Sounded _understanding_.

“Yeah.” Even if he didn’t know his exact role in it. Surrogate parent when needed? Big brother, one who Mike took care of, too? “It’s all good.”

“I see that. Well, keep in touch. Ya know where to find me.” And with a wink, Stephen held out a matchbook from the bar…plus a thick black marker pen.

Peter laughed, long and loud, hanging on to the car for support. “Be a lot easier if gave me your phone number or at least your address,” he wheezed.

“Where’s the challenge in that, cher?” Stephen gave a hard stroke to Peter’s face and swung away. He leaned over into the T-Bird and kissed a half-dozing Toby. “Bye, blondie.”

“Bye,” said Toby and Peter. She turned to him as the hearse drove away. “He’s not your brother, though?”

Peter smiled. “All men are brothers.”

“Oh. That's _nice_. Hey, help me sneak in?” She pointed down the street to her house, and Peter’s affirmative reply was lost in the blare of her horn as she accidently elbowed it.

“Hey…”

Peter looked up, to see Mike at his window.

“Everything okay?” Mike peered out into the night and down at them.

“Micky’s a bit worse for wear. I put him downstairs with Davy. He’s got water and a pitcher that just might be his new best friend. Long story. I don’t want to try to get either of them up the staircase. I'm just taking Toby home.” It struck Peter that Mike could have been listening in…and heard his conversation with Stephen.

“Well...thanks.”

“Mike?” Toby called. “Do you think all men are brothers?”

“I…guess so?”

“Because I like that.” Toby nodded and accidentally hit the horn again.

Peter looked up at Mike, standing tousle-haired and bare-chested in the open window, backlit by his nightstand lamp, his face creased in amusement and his giggle which came a second later infectious.

And I like _this_ , he thought. He wondered if his smile was broader than Mike’s. No, probably about the same, he decided, and was pleased about that too.


	8. July, 1966

**Wednesday 6 th**

Peter went inside, taking his sun-bright, sun warmth with him, leaving Mike cold and alone on the sundeck. Seemed Peter had taken Mike’s courage with him, too, or it was fading as reality set in. Mike’s feet made a half-movement, as if they wanted to go after Peter, but instead he bent over the grill in front of him and turned over the food on it as savagely as he turned over the reply he regretted making to Peter’s question.

_I might will? I’m fixin’ to?_

His metal tongs bit deep into the softened, roasting pepper under the force of his jerky movements, and his face felt as hot as the grill’s charcoal bricks. What the hell? Worst of it was he’d had no need to even answer! He could have stalled. He had been, and doing it just fine. Peter had even referred to _“That question I asked you, that you didn’t answer.”_

See? He had been avoiding it perfectly, after foolishly admitting to Peter, beguiled by that steady bright topaz gaze of his, _“I…don’t see you the same way I do the others.”_

_“And I asked you how you did see me.”_

_“I…know you did.”_

_“You didn’t answer.”_

_“I know that too.”_

He’d won that exchange, Peter grrring in frustration! So why, when Peter had regrouped and pressed, “Will you answer it?” what the sweet Sam Hill had made Mike say he was fixin’ to? Oh, he could guess, could untwist the various strands of emotions from the knot they made in his stomach.

There was relief, at having gotten Peter out of the clutches of that ice-cold blonde criminal Judy. Joy, even, at having gotten rid of her without Peter knowing he’d been used, made a fool of…in danger. An adrenaline rush at how he’d conceived a plan and executed it in secret, kept evidence on her crime as a safeguard. But none of it meant he had to put everything on the line and tell Peter his goddamn _feelings_!

A shout from inside the pad recalled Mike to his cookout duties. “It takes as long as it takes,” he yelled back. “Or longer, actually, when in answer to the simple question of ‘how d’you like your chops?’ Micky says, ‘rare, medium, _and_ well done’ so I gotta cook him three, one of each? Give me a break here, guys!”

He prolonged the zing of irritation like he was pressing a bell at an unattended counter, glad for the new emotion, fresh energy. Glad too, when Davy slid out again to join him.

“How Micky likes his chops?” Davy repeated. “Well, currently, ‘slobbered on’, I’d guess, way he’s drooling in there.”

Davy spoke in the peevish tone of someone who’d struck out with the glamour models on the beach…unlike Micky, who hadn’t, and had brought one back to the pad with him.

“I know how he should _hope_ his chops are—unbusted,” Davy continued. “Like, hoping she doesn’t smack him one, how he’s creeping on her, following her around, staring at her all googly-eyed.”

Mike had to smile, and Davy, satisfied—for the moment—with the zingers he’d let fly, went back inside.

“Nearly done,” Mike called, in a more even mood. “And one o’ya had better be making the salad and slicing bread.” If anyone had fetched salad and bread from the store. “I’m busy here!”

Busy preparing to go _scrying_ , in point of fact, for the answer of what best to do. To speak or not to speak. That was the question. Oh, he wasn’t exactly gonna be reading entrails or even tarot cards. He’d just turn on the radio and see if the first words he heard were negative or positive. Negative for no, keep his mouth shut, and positive for yes, be fixin’ to…well. He took a deep breath and pushed in the transistor’s on-off button.

“Did you ever have to finally decide?” chirped the last line of an unabashedly melodic, cheery, and good-time pop tune, its blues and jug bands influence evident. Mike scowled.

“And with _Did You Ever Have to Make up Your Mind?_ that was—”

“No fucken help. Any of you,” Mike muttered to the DJ and the Lovin’ Spoonful. “And ya got a dumb name.” He retuned to the news, where he was sure to hear a negative word…but where he strained to understand. Oh, he could understand the horrific news that American POWs were being forced to march through the streets of North Vietnam, but not what the mob was yelling at them! It must be negative, right? Or could be positive, though, depending on whose point of view was being taken. “Oh, come on! Speak English!” Mike begged.

Frustrated, running out of time, he twisted the dial back to the music station and his heart leapt when he heard a mezza-soprano declaring, “You Don’t Have to say You Love Me.”

“Thank you, Miss Dusty!” Mike crowed. “Ya got a weird name too, but you’re okay!” _Just be close at hand._ He was. And…he did. Did love Peter. He knew that. Knew his feelings went beyond digging him as a person, grooving on hanging out with him, or even being hung up on his looks. But now, thanks to a peroxide blonde British, he thought, singer, he didn’t have to say. And sticking his head inside the den, he was convinced Dusty was right.

Because Peter’s eyes might glow a soft gold, their brown softened from topaz to amber, just as his beaming smile might showcase his dimple, but look at him—he was friendly and sweet like that to _everyone_. And from everyone to someone: Mike did a double take at Sandra, the model Micky had charmed back to the pad from the beach. She looked…different.

“You should’ve seen his face when she came out of the bathroom, changed!” Davy, next to Mike, laughed softly, seeing where he was gazing.

Yeah, there was a big difference between the wildcat-print-swimsuit-wearing model from the sands, all cheetah tail on her tush and pointy ears on her head, whose perfect complexion, long, thick eyelashes, and high crown and glossy tail of golden blonde hair had kinda reminded Mike of Nancy Sinatra…and this woman in shorts and tee, with less bouncy, less-in-general hair.

“I get that she changed out of her cheetah print swimming costume and cleaned off her makeup, but what about that fall of hair?” Mike whispered.

“Exactly. It _was_ a fall.” Davy’s answer held all the assurance of one who read a whole bunch of fashion mags, and knew his bouffant from his beehive, his bombshell from his bubble flip, and his fall from his cluster. The chick was still pretty though, and regaling their neighbor, Toby, who’d arrived with chips and burgers and for some reason a huge watermelon, with stories about life as a glamour model.

“Would I be a good model?” Toby was asking, her eyes on Sandra but nevertheless managing to grab herself a fistful of potato chips.

“Umm, can you stand still for a long time?” Sandra replied.

“What _now_?” Toby spoke thickly from around the mass of chips she was crunching, covering her mouth with her hand. “Like this or can I finish these first?”

“Stick to journalism, babe,” Davy advised. “Or you could write about life as a demonstration model. Go undercover.”

“Not under much cover, sometimes,” Sandra said on a sigh.

She seemed okay, Mike thought. At least she’d taken it fine that a cookout, eaten sitting on a sundeck—literally; they didn’t have enough chairs— was in fact what Micky’s invite to a steak dinner boiled down to…

“ _Grilled_ down to, actually,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head when people looked at him. “Oh, nothing. Come on out—it’s ready.”

He changed his mind some about their guest when Sandra—“no starch!”—insisted on rinsing off each bit of salad on her plate to clean off any dressing, and her meat to wash off any oil or rub, then chewed each mouthful thirty times before swallowing. He frowned darkly at Davy in case the l’il biscuit dared riff on _that_.

“Sorry,” Sandra apologised, returning after running another tomato slice under their faucet—she’d helped herself to seconds. “Just I have another Tropical Sun sunscreen roadshow at Redondo Beach tomorrow, then Zuma Beach the day after, and that animal print swimwear is very—”

“Revealing.” Micky nodded happily.

“Unforgiving,” Sandra said at the same time, glancing at him. “It reveals everything—”

“I’ll say.” Micky rubbed his hands together.

“…you had to eat,” Sandra finished, slowly, as slowly as she chewed her salad, or gnawed on the bone of her chop. She downed her third glass of water.

Mike tried coughing to alert Micky to his host duties, to no avail, so Peter got up, picked up the jug, and went around the circle they made sitting around the tacked-down sheets of newspaper to refill her glass.

“Oh.” Sandra put down her bone and wiped her hands and mouth. “Your hand is interesting.”

Yeah, Peter had nice hands. Nice wrists, fingers, everything. All shapely and tan, strong yet sensitive.

“Your life line is very clear…” Sandra took the jug from Peter and set it down.

“You read palms?” Micky squeaked, then coughed to get his voice under control.

Sandra shrugged. “It’s a Greek thing. My mom’s side of the family. May I?”

“I guess so…” Peter folded to a cross-legged sit next to her. “Although we don’t usually tend to do well with psychics or palm readers…”

True. Mike found he’d tensed, was sitting forward, on alert. Not because a pretty blond was holding Peter’s hand. No.

“You’re right-handed,” Sandra murmured, head bent. 

Well, that was hardly proof of prowess—most people were. Oh, seemed she wanted to compare his dominant hand to his other, conscious to subconscious? Mike shoved more steak into his mouth so’s not to speak. He wished he’d had chance to marinade the steak. He’d rubbed his special steak spices on it, but—

“So left is what you start out with, and right is what you make of it!” Micky, crowding close, acted like the secrets of the universe were being revealed to him, when all he probably wanted was an opportunity to peer down the chick’s top.

“And these are quite different, see?” Sandra stroked both the palms she held with her thumbs. “You rejected early teachings…your family…”

Again, not difficult to see. Peter was well-spoken, intelligent and cultured, his accent not local…and living in a rundown pad with three fellow musicians.

“Your life line has quite a few breaks.” Sandra released Peter’s left hand and focused on his right. “Lots of early moves, right? Your family relocated a lot.”

“People tended to, in the war and just after,” Mike couldn’t stop himself breaking in.

“What’s this line?” Peter pointed to one.

“Heart. A few lines on it…bit of a flirt, huh?”

“Oh boy—wait until she sees Davy’s!” Micky grinned over at them.

“A lot of love around you.” Sandra made a motion with her free hand, as if feeling it. “And that’s your head line. You’re creative yet analytical. And fate…” She stilled then looked up at him.

Peter eased his hand free. “I’d rather not know. Find out as I go along, you dig?” He gave her a smile, even if it wasn’t quite as sunny as his usual beam.

“Do me!” Micky slid next to her.

“He wishes,” Davy muttered.

“Wow, that life line!” Sandra traced something while Mike was still puzzling over what she’d said about Peter.

“It’s long, right?” Micky demanded, taking over from Sandra’s finger and continuing up his sleeve.

“It goes all the way up there? What’s that mean—he’s gonna die of old age in a railway tunnel?” Davy mocked.

“I’m looking at this split here at the end,” Sandra corrected.

“Oh, die of old age at a railway _junction_?” Davy continued.

“The other end! The start. I’m getting a sense of another…you’re not twins, though?” Sandra frowned.

“ _No!_ ” came from everyone on the deck. “Please God.” Mike added. One was enough. If another turned up, claiming some kooky separated-at-birth stuff, he’d— He bit back a laugh at Davy’s assertion that if Micky was twins, it was with Mr. Schneider.

“Well, then…did you die?” Sandra asked. “I mean, as a young kid?”

“OhmyGod, I _did_!” Micky cried, his voice ringing over their cries and exclamations at her question.

“Water…” Sandra muttered.

“Yeah, I drowned!” Micky looked around the circle at their open-mouthed expressions. “Oh, I got better. Tell me more!”

“Animals…” Sandra continued.

“Fleas,” Davy fake-coughed.

“And…a bath?”

“Flea bath,” Davy replied, still fake-coughing, although Mike noticed Micky looked a little shifty.

“These are early years.” Sandra rubbed Micky’s palm. “Now there’s lots of music…”

“Wait.” Micky swallowed. “You can see what I’m up to now? In the present?”

“I’m seeing a lot of women in the present.” Sandra narrowed her eyes. “Three…”

With a hasty, “I-I got three sisters,” Micky slid his hand free. “Hey, do Davy.”

Who’d gone from coughing to laughing, but now stopped. “Oh, I don’t—”

“Be cheaper for you,” Micky interrupted him. “Like, half-price, for those little hands, ’cause it won’t take so long!”

Mike tuned out a little, concentrating on eating the last chop, the one everyone had left out of politeness. No sense letting it go to waste. He didn’t believe in leaving something for Mr. Manners. Damn freeloader could get his own food, far as Mike was concerned.

He half-listened to Sandra mention _riding_ , and caught Davy thumping Micky before he wisecracked on that. Sandra did talk about horses and costumes and singing, but nothing that couldn’t be guesswork, based on what she’d seen in the pad. He started to clear the plates away, stopping when he heard Sandra mention his name.

“No. Michael wouldn’t. It’s against the tenets of his church,” Peter replied to Sandra.

Mike stilled, mid scraping of scraps, and looked up at Peter. That was correct! Peter really knew him, knew—

“Toby?”

Toby, scruple-free, stuck her hand in Sandra’s face, and laughing, Sandra pushed it lower to see it. She laughed again. “Oh, you are _actually_ a twin, right?”

“Oh, no.” Toby shook her head. “There’s just one of me. Oh, wait, yes! I’ve got a twin brother!”

Mike rolled his eyes. He barely listened to the rest, although Toby squealed in joy when Sandra saw her married easily within a year, and groaned in disappointment when Sandra couldn’t tell her the name of the groom.

“I just wanna get started now on the wedding prep!” she protested. “Oh well, I guess I don’t need to know who it is—I can start looking for the dress and choosing a matron of honor and some bridesmaids and their clothes already, right? Does it say anything about colors or a venue?” She shook her hand, like a kid might shake a Magic 8 Ball, as if to get a different reading.

Sandra pursed her lips and peered harder. “I get an impression of an animal or animals, but that’s all.”

“Oh. Huh.”

Well, with a combination of Toby’s taste in men and her luck, Mike could kinda see why that might be the case, but she looked downcast. “Oh, you know, that could be us, the Monkees, playing at the rich-swank reception,” he suggested, to cheer her up.

“Yeah, and the way Micky eats? Like feeding time at the zoo,” Davy added, doing his impersonation of Micky eating wedding cake.

“Oh, yeah!” Toby was all smiles again. “Sandra, who’s got the most interesting hand?”

“Peter.” Sandra’s reply was immediate. “There’s so much love there.” She made that trying-to-feel-it gesture again. “All around and it’s coming for you soon, you know.”

The knock on the front door had them all freezing, Mike the most. He couldn’t prevent himself from glancing at Peter.

“Erm, coming for _me_ , I think you’ll find.” Smirking, Davy jumped up and went to answer it.

“He ordered up his own blonde?” Micky whispered as Davy ushered his chick in. “He’s just so envious of me!”

“Not when it’s your turn to do the dishes he ain’t,” Mike replied, indicating the kitchen, but Micky either didn’t get the hint or chose to ignore it.

And Davy’s blonde chick was staying the night, Mike found later. Well, that wasn’t unheard of. Oh, as was Sandra, which was rarer for Micky.

“Guess the steak dinner was _that_ good,” Peter said. “I’m sorry I didn’t taste your meat. Maybe I should, next time?”

Mike gave a half-laugh and moved away. Was it his imagination or had Peter been making, well, _smutty_ remarks, lately, as in, this late part of the evening? _My imagination_ , he told himself firmly, convinced a couple of hours or so later, later when Peter settled near him, on the cleared and tidied sundeck, suggestive-comment free.

Mike automatically moved over on the blanket he was lying on, half-propped up against the deck’s back wall to look out over the water, for Peter to sit, acoustic in hand. And he wasn’t sitting cross-legged, but with his mostly bare legs stuck out. Mike…liked that. He found he’d slithered down, his head on the pillow, and him on one side to watch as well as listen. About to ask Peter what he was working on, Mike thought better of talking because just listening was fine, especially when Peter was playing soft and gentle like that.

Peter had been swimming, in the dusk or near dark, in that way he did, and his hair was still damp. He hadn’t bothered to dress fully again after—the evening was warm enough for just old, cut-off pajama pants. Oh…Mike put a belated one and one and one together—pajama pants plus a second blanket plus a glass of water—Peter would be sleeping out here too! They had shared the space to sleep in before, and not just before the pad had enough beds—fairly recently too. But now, sleeping together, with Mike’s newfound understanding of his feelings…

No. Peter was his good friend, one Mike loved spending time with, like this, see? Anything else would be wrong. Could break up the group, for one thing, just when they were hitting their stride. They’d had a week’s residency off the Strip, and Mike was following up on contacts for places on the Strip itself, for God’s sake! He could supress it. Peter was his good friend, his bandmate, his roommate…and the guy he just happened to love.

Mike had no need for his sleeping pills that night, instead drifting off to the soft, sweet sounds of Peter playing guitar.

**Thursday 7 th**

Mike woke, took a second to work out where he was and instantly knew Peter wasn’t there, on his left, where he’d been sitting when Mike went to sleep and where he’d been lying when Mike had woken a couple of times in the night. He took a moment to absorb the fact that his first thought on waking had been Peter. The weight of the realization had him rolling his shoulders, trying to settle it. He was glad Peter had gone—imagine if he’d rolled toward him in the night. He…hadn’t, had he?

And why was he rolling now, when he was lying still? Well, not rolling, but shaking. No, not that so much as being jolted. There—again. Another one. Some sort of irregular impact on the sundeck, making the wooden boards vibrate under him. He raised his head to check it out. What— Not what. But. As in, butt.

Naked. Butt naked. There! Here!

 _What? No._ Mike…had imagined, hadn’t seen… He sneaked a hand up to his face to check his eyes were open. They were. _Wide_ open. “Peter!” Mike yelped. “You’re—” Bare. Naked. Nude.

Pushing himself into a sit, squashing himself up against the back wall, Mike tried for a gesture to finish his sentence. No, that was impossible. “ _Unclothed._ ”

A few feet away, his naked, nude, bare body contorted into a yoga shape, Peter laughed. “Skyclad?” he offered, as if reading the list of synonyms in Mike’s mind. “Yeah.”

“Do you often? I mean…” Yeah, he had no idea what he meant, any more than he could drag his gaze away.

“Sometimes.”

And now was one of those times. “Peter, anyone could see you!” Mike wished he hadn’t half-whispered, half-hissed that. “We have _guests_!” he reminded him.

“There’s just you here.” Peter stretched up his arms and stood on one leg, bending the other at the knee to rest his sole flat on the inner side of its opposite leg.

 _The thigh_ , Mike’s mind told him unhelpfully helpful. Peter’s toned, tan, soft-to-the-touch—probably— _thigh_.

“You said last December you don’t have a hang-up about nudity? Nakedness? Bareness?”

Mike’s body throbbed with each of the last three words. He’d been right last night—Peter was doing it again, using certain words on purpose! And his purpose was—

“Michael?” Peter prompted. “Have you changed your opinion? Do you have a hang-up about it?”

“No.” Oh, but he did. If a hang-up was an emotional or personal problem, then he so did. “I—” _Like yours_ , he bit back. God, he must still be half-asleep. He waved at the sand below them. “Someone could come past.”

“It’s early,” Peter countered. He squatted, one leg extended…letting it all hang out, never mind hang-ups.

Mike scrambled for calm, for a poker face, for his mantra of last night. _Just friends. Good friends but just friends._ And you don’t lust after your friends. _Some of ’em I do_ , a part of him answered back, an impudent, daring…lust-addled part.

Okay, it was gonna be that sort of morning. Frowning, Mike prepared to give that bold, horny part of him a good talking-to, wrestle it into submission. _Okay, so I’m attracted to him. It’s just physical. And, heh, who wouldn’t be? He’s good-looking. Well-built. Fan-fucken-tastic ass._

On all fours now, cute ass on display, cock and balls…free, Peter looked over his shoulder and—oh, merciful heavens— _winked_. No. He hadn’t. Please. It was a trick of the thin early morning light, just as Mike’s face was burning hot because of the thin early morning sun. It was physical. Just physical.

***

It wasn’t just physical. “This is all your fault,” Mike hissed at Henry, a few hours later. Mike, frazzled, weakened, blaming Mrs. Purdey’s almost five-month-old grandson for all of this, almost squeaked in surprise when Peter, with an “I’ll take him,” swung Henry out of his arms.

Because it wasn’t just physical. It was emotional. And Mike was remembering the first time Peter had taken care of then-new-born Henry, in those God-have-mercy—on me—bunny all-in-ones, his overlong bangs falling over his eyes as he bent his head over the tiny baby he had cradled in his arms to feed him a bottle…because that was when it had started. _I think._

_It._ That pang in his chest, like a squeeze, making _it_ more about his heart’s longing than his eyes’ liking. _It. This._ Mike tried to detach it from him, meaning it could be shoved away, and not stare helplessly as Peter showed off his bare chest and his mostly bare legs in those frayed shorts. Oh, and showed off his biceps, too, holding Henry by one arm while Henry played with Peter’s beads, plunging Mike fathoms deep into his feelings once more.

“Do you want kids?” shot from him like a rubber bullet.

“Sure.” Peter shook back his hair and turned to Mike. His mouth curled into a smile. “Maybe not four, though.”

“Huh?”

The smile deepened, the dimple deepening, the beauty spot dancing. “Three of us here are one of four.”

A few months earlier, Mike might have had to puzzle out what a Peter statement like that meant, but now he understood him fluently.

“But yes. I do.” Peter shrugged and swung Henry around in another circle before plopping him in Mike’s arms and turning away to answer the phone.

 _So I’m not being fair. Peter should get a chick and have a kid. I can’t do that to him._ “Wait. I’m not talking about _marrying_ him,” Mike muttered to Henry, who stared back, uncaring. “So it could only ever be a fling, right?”

Henry blew a spit bubble and Mike sighed, wiping it away. “But I don’t want that,” he mumbled, not knowing whether he was pleased or not that Shelley had dumped her son on them again today. As a sounding board, he was slightly more close-mouthed and slightly less helpful than Mr. Schneider. “Yeah, I’m attracted to him…but I don’t want to be another, well, notch on his…well, anything.”

He glared at Peter, sprawled on the floor near the phone, chuckling, twirling the cord around a finger in the way he did when chatting with a chick. “Quit that!” Mike barked. “It ruins the wire and the connection!”

Peter froze, then slowly pushed himself into a cross-legged sit, untwisting the cord from his finger, his eyes on Mike the entire time. He continued his conversation, still looking at Mike, the look on his face one Mike could only label _speculative_.

“Yeah, notch. You heard me, kid.” Mike bore Henry off outside around to the side of the house and the leisure area there. Oh, not that Peter kissed and told, exactly, either in bragging like Davy or out of a sense of amazement like Micky, but he had his share.

 _Like now_ , Mike betted, glancing back toward to the pad where Peter was presumably still on the phone. _He breezes through ’em._ And Mike, relaxing the tight grip he didn’t know he had on Henry’s arms when the little guy grizzled and kicked his legs, didn’t think he could stand to be left in the dust when Peter blew onward, without him.

 _And like now, where we’re going_ , Mike was prepared to bet again later, catching sight of Peter in the Monkeemobile’s rear-view mirror. Peter was in the back with Henry.

“You didn’t have to come to watch him.”

Peter’s tone made Mike think he must be scowling, which made him wipe his expression. “Oh, I might go into the Duke Box, ask if there’s any news following the audition, show my face, you know?” Mike had been meaning to do that.

“And there’s that other club. Oh, and I guess you won’t be trying the Trip again.”

“No, guess I won’t.” Mike was still sore about that, about them not being welcome after their week’s residency had gone so well.

“Hey, he didn’t know she was his old lady, man!” Peter’s Davy impression was spot-on. “Looked so young he thought she was his daughter, yeah?”

Mike had to smile. “And I thought With a Twist was a different club,” he replied. Peter would get the joke.

He did. “But if you don’t want to take Henry with you, I was going to put him in the playroom there anyway,” Peter continued.

“He’s too young,” Mike argued.

“It’s all ages. Like a crèche. A playgroup.”

The playroom in the Skills Exchange Workspace on Crescent, Peter’s destination, was, Mike discovered, and Henry seemed happy enough in there with a handful of other kids, two of whom pounced on him to practice their face painting on. Fine by Mike. And better the kid in there with the aspiring artists than in the room where Peter was teaching guitar to a bunch of girls hanging on to his every word. He knew what Peter plus helpless baby equalled: chick bait. Didn’t need to exchange any skills whatsoever for Mike to learn that.

Mike kind of hovered along the corridor, peeping in at Henry, to make sure he was okay, and at Peter, to, well, just because. Better safe than sorry. _But…would I be sorry, if I…well, with him?_ Peter stopped and rolled his shirtsleeves up, revealing his forearms. Had he undone a couple of buttons, exposing that vee of hair on his upper chest? Sure looked like it. Jesus H. Christ, Mike was getting hard! He had to do something.

He ducked away down the corridor to a kitchenette and poured himself a glass of water, letting the faucet run until it was cold, holding the glass to his forehead and face after, then gulping it down. Not surprisingly, it didn’t change anything about his situation, and nor did the second glass. This wasn’t exactly the ‘do something’ he’d urged himself to do. He couldn’t skulk in here until Peter’s class ended. Could he? He caught himself looking at his watch, to see how much time was left, and despised his own cowardice.

 _What if I told him I…found him attractive_ —he refused to admit how weak and feeble, how _anemic_ that was— _to see what happens?_ _That might work, mightn’t it?_ Then, depending on what Peter said, or did…or didn’t say and didn’t do…Mike could or would…say or do something else. Yes. Yes?

He found himself inside the teaching room. Peter had dragged his stool on wheels to the end of the short row of chairs, and didn’t hear Mike slip in. He wouldn’t, not being focused on demonstrating a chord to the blonde there.

“Not quite…nearly…” Peter encouraged, and went behind his pupil’s chair to bend down, place his fingers on the blonde’s and demonstrate how to progress from D to E minor that way.

When did Mike move forward? He hadn’t known he was going to, but it made Peter, then the student look up. Which was when Mike realized the student was a guy, slim, willowy, with center-parted collar-length hair and green eyes. The eyes, bright behind little glasses… Mike hadn’t seen them before, he didn’t think, but he’d…heard about them?

“Mike. Do you remember—or do you know—Sam?” Peter straightened up and nodded encouragement at the chick to his left. “You must have seen him in the Midnight Bookstore in the mall?”

 _Sam._ Peter had mentioned him. Had described him…as being like something out of Fitzgerald, if Mike had understood. This full-blown hippie, with his collarless shirt and frayed hems…wasn’t. “You’re a ways from the Santa Monica Mall,” Mike commented.

“He moved on,” Peter called, from two chicks over. “He’s at Jabberwock, just at the beginning of the Strip, now.”

“They sell books?” Mike queried. He’d thought the brightly painted store was a head shop.

“Ideas and Thoughts. Fun and Games. Books and Talk. That’s what it says on the window, man!” Sam stood. “It’s a gas. Drop in sometime. For Ideas and Thoughts.”

“Not Fun and Games?” joked the girl next to him.

“That’s more Peter’s area.” Sam winked.

He could have been talking about pot. Mike _wanted_ to believe he was talking about the shop being a place Peter hung out and bought pot, but he remembered how Peter had talked about this guy and he saw how Peter was looking at him now. Hell, saw how Peter was standing too close to him now. His blood ran cold—was this who Peter had been lamenting about, to Davy, at their party? Despairing that no matter what he did, things weren’t happening? Mike had presumed it was Judy, but— Well, sure seemed things were in progress now.

Before Mike could think of what to say, the class was ending, people thanking Peter, hugging him, kissing his cheek, chatting, casing their guitars, leaving. Sam, however, stayed. Mike tried not to stare, not to overhear his and Peter’s conversation He couldn’t resist interrupting it though.

“Guess we’d better collect Henry. Last I saw, he was being used as a canvas by a couple of budding young artists.”

“Oh?” The way Sam voiced that one syllable told Mike he had plans for Peter. “Then the movie…or _film_ , I guess I should say—”

“At the Cinematheque-16.” Peter nodded. “Henry’ll be cool. He’ll be asleep!”

Mike was tempted, so tempted, to nod in agreement and saunter off, letting Henry act as a brake, to say the least on Peter’s evening plans, but he couldn’t. He’d never been to the underground cinema that showed foreign movies, but he knew of it. “No. It’s not—” He wouldn’t say _suitable_. Might as well declare himself square and have done with it. “I’ll take him back.”

“Oh…” Peter half-turned as he did when calculating and flicked a glance from Mike to Sam. “Yeah. Rain check? Same time next week?”

And Mike had to turn away, to hide any sign of the swift, hot flare of triumph that flamed through him. It blew itself out, though, at the way Peter took his leave not just of Sam but other people in the workshop, and at how he chatted about various people on the ride home. Peter was light, the breeze off the ocean at dawn in summer, doing its thing and then gone. Mike knew he couldn’t bear that. It would be like the sun going in, from his life. He was careful not to let any of his thoughts show, though, and took to his room and then went a long walk later, precautions against letting his gaze rest on Peter even just a beat too long.

Until much later that night, when, receiving a grunted, “Uh huh,” from a TV-watching Davy in answer to his question was the bathroom free, Mike walked in—the unlocked door—to Peter stepping from the shower. Naked wet Peter stepping from the shower. Naked. Wet—

“Twice in one day! Bookends, too. Is this becoming a habit?” Peter smiled.

Mike didn’t recall what he replied, could only hope it wasn’t a strangled gargle. It took him a while to make his body move, exit the bathroom…and all the while Peter, unconcerned, twisted and flexed as he patted himself dry.

Mike…didn't sleep well that night, although he did fall deeply enough to sleep to dream…

**Friday 8 th **

He was on the beach, with Peter. No, in the shallows, bobbing smoothly on the wavelets. How? Oh, on a surfboard. Of course. The up-and-down, back-and-forth movements were gentle, rhythmic, enveloping his whole body…and getting stronger. Mike almost didn’t want them to, because the languid feeling was so delicious, but his body was in charge, his brain along for the ride. Peter bent closer, his lips parting, perhaps to whisper, perhaps to kiss, perhaps to—

“Mike. _Mike!_ ”

Peter? Even half-asleep, Mike knew it wasn’t. Cheated, denied, he woke throbbing, almost coming, his hips barely thrusting and his hand hardly moving on his—

“ _Mike!_ ”

 _Not_ Peter, but Micky standing over him, a pair of scissors in one hand and a knife in other. “Which is best?” he demanded.

Mike closed his eyes, fighting the tension wracking his body from his frowning forehead down to his, well. He bit back the expletives trying to burst free and loose themselves over Micky. There was no point. You shared a room with the LA loon, you expected…this. Accepted…this. It was even in their house rules, Mike thought. He tried to remember the written wording, then gave up.

Instead, he let everything pulse away…and the sheet settle down flat again once the protrusion making it tent had deflated. Micky was still there at his bedside when he opened his eyes. Mike inhaled. His roommate wouldn’t go until he’d gotten an answer, no matter how wild the question. “Best for what?”

“Trimming my hair.” Micky’s tone supplied the _duh_ his voice didn’t. “I wanna look nice for this British chick.”

“This…” It took a second for the day, the week, the summer, _life_ , to settle into place. And that place seemed to be on Mike’s shoulders. “You know her?” That wasn’t exactly what he meant—there wasn’t a way Micky could be acquainted with the journalist coming from London for the summer and staying at Toby’s.

“Sort of.” Micky’s shrug had the metal implements he was holding rising and falling and Mike, watching them as if hypnotized, understood: Micky was staking first claim.

“What’s her name?” Mike, almost enjoying this, sat up against the headboard. “If you ‘sort of’ know her.”

“Well, okay, that’s the sort of thing I don’t know. But I know I’ll like her!”

“She’s blonde.” Mike didn’t bother making his intonation rise into a question.

“She’s blonde,” Micky confirmed.

“Like Toby, then, but British. A British Toby.” God, Mike shouldn’t put himself through it but couldn’t help imagining. He could hear it too: “Oh, I say, where do I live again? The houses are all on the opposite side of the street in this colony. And where did one park one’s horseless carriage vehicle? Only, one seems to have lost the bally thing.”

“Mikey?” Micky peered down at him nervously. He couldn’t see the picture Mike had conjured up, hear the strangulated accent he was putting on, could he? “Oh, it’s going to be that sort of day!” His face brightened.

“Probably. They do tend to be.” Mike flung back the sheet. “Lemme get a coffee and I’ll trim your hair.” Micky, with sharp scissors and an even sharper knife near his own ears or eyes or nose or neck? Not a good idea and contrary to the list of ‘handing Micky over’ rules his mother had laid down, if Mike recalled correctly.

He caught the tail-end of the grin filling out Micky’s face at having gotten his own way without even having to try and threw a pillow at him, regretting it when Micky took it as a signal to drop his knife and scissors with a clatter and jump onto Mike’s bed and _him_ , to take his revenge, using his Ted as a weapon. Wait, what was that even doing in Mike’s bed, anyway? Yeah, definitely that sort of day.

Mike thought that again later when, no sooner had the coffeepot heated, than Nyles came in thr front door.

“Hey…” Nyles trailed off vaguely.

“Hey.” Mike wondered whether to tell Nyles he was in the wrong house, although the way their platinum-blond neighbour was looking about it, his face puzzled, he’d probably figure that out. Mike also wondered why they didn’t lock their door. _Lock it and bolt it. Nail it shut._ Might stop the flow of visitors and guests… “Coffee?” He hefted the pot to show Nyles what he meant, that it was an offer.

“No, clothes.”

“Clothes…”

“I’m returning the clothes I borrowed from here before I forget.”

Mike eyed him. “So you wore ’em so you wouldn’t forget?”

“Yeah, man!” Nyles did a slow twirl in the formal evening suit and top hat, tapping the cane on the floor like Davy doing a soft-shoe shuffle. He frowned and lowered his voice. “Although I don’t get that thing with the pocket watch.”

Mike took a shifty glance around and lowered his voice. “We’re gonna make like that…didn’t happen.” That they hadn’t gotten mixed up with a dangerous lying schemer, that Mike hadn’t stooped to her lever—lower—to best her and keep Peter safe. “Dig?”

“Dug.” Nyles turned in the direction of Mike’s name being called from the sundeck and followed the voice outside where Micky was seated on a stool on sheets of newspaper, more newspaper pages tucked into his neck, like someone had started a papier-mâché project without knowing how to go about it.

“Oh, haircut day.” Nodding, Nyles took sheets of paper for himself and sat too.

Opening his mouth to ask a question or issue a denial, Mike recognized force majeur when he was up against it and so merely chugged the rest of his coffee instead. “Hang on while I make sure I got it. You got more curls now, Micky, and they’re tricky,” he ordered his waiting clients, fetching his file from the bureau drawer. “Nice rhyme,” he commented, in lieu of Peter not being there to do it.

“I never know if we should be worried or not that you learned everything you know about hairdressing by correspondence,” Micky said, pointing at the course lessons with their diagrams and sequences of instructions.

“You should be more worried that I inherited this file and that it wasn’t even me who took the course,” Mike countered. “Now remember to keep still, or do I gotta get the rope again?” He started in on Micky while the kinky little drummer boy was considering that, and didn’t do a bad job on him, even if he thought so himself. Nyles applauded anyway. Recalling the ‘chat to put customer at ease: list of suitable topics’ lesson, Mike asked Nyles about his annual reunion party weekend he’d just been on.

“Oh, man, it wasn’t so much fun this year. I forgot it was my wife’s year to go instead, and she was so mad at me for showing up. Since we split, we split our friends too, but timewise, not physically, dig?” Nyles replied.

“Wh—” Mike tried.

“H—” Micky managed, and they stared at each other.

“I didn’t know you were married!” Micky gasped.

“I’m not. I’m divorced,” Nyles said slowly, as if to a child. “Why do you think I got that house?”

“Wh—” Mike tried again.

Micky, unable to manage even that much this time just shook his head, his eyes huge and still on Mike.

Mike reasoned he’d better skip asking _any plans for the weekend?_ with Nyles, and so snipped away in silence.

“Hi…” Peter called from inside the den.

 _Grocery bag in his arms. His and Davy’s turn to go to the store_. Mike knew all that with the barest flicker of a glance through the back windows.

“Hey, Peter, look!” Micky called, shaking his head to settle his curls.

“Looking good, Micky!” Brown sack deposited, Peter was in their midst. “Michael, do you have time to do me?”

“You want me…” He hadn’t cut Peter’s hair in a year. Mike ignored the ambiguity of Peter’s question and the stupidity of his own answer in favor of nodding. “Sure. Sure. Take a number. Take—” _Your shirt off?_

With a comment about not wanting hairs down his collar, Peter, bare-chested in the blink of an eye, took Micky’s stool. It didn’t take to finish Nyles, who wandered off down onto the sand, still wearing his formal clothes, and then Mike was looking down at Peter. “Could you just trim my bangs a little?” Peter peered up through them. “They’re tangling in my eyelashes!”

This had to be a special kind of torture, Mike decided, seated on a stool close to Peter. Very close to Peter. Close enough to breath in that sand-and-sea scent, to count every freckle on his suntanned face, to catch every gold, topaz, and amber fleck, every glint and gleam in those brown eyes, to see that alluring dimple deepen and smooth out, that enticing little button mole above his lip dance…

“You…you gotta keep still,” Mike advised, swallowing hard, harder when he took Peter’s silky, shiny apricot-scented locks between his fingers, prior to running the comb down them.

“Or Mike ties you to a chair,” Micky threw in. “He’s got the rope and everything.”

“Oh?” And the dimple deepened and the little beauty spot…beautied as Peter stared into Mike’s eyes. “I’ll remember that.”

Mike fought the threatened tremble of his fingers, was proud of his deep, even breaths and steady hand that enabled him to trim the barest quarter inch off Peter’s bangs. And if he took his time combing them through afterward, well, no one was to know, right? Not Peter, sitting eyes closed as Mike, well, played with his hair. No one—

“Mike? Peter? Any of you, really,” came a female voice, rising and falling as she ran up their steps from the sand below.

Mike let Peter’s hair fall into place and Peter opened his eyes, looking right into Mike’s for a long beat.

“Toby,” they replied together, to their neighbor.

“Mike?” She stared for a moment at him now standing over Peter, blowing stray hairs from his nose and chin and giving those shining, bouncy locks a final comb. “Mike, do you do tinting?”

“What do you think?” he replied.

In the long pause that followed, he regretted confusing her. “No, I don’t,” he clarified. “Can we help you?”

Another, longer Toby-shaped pause greeted that. Davy, coming out on the sundeck, had obviously heard the question and took in the situation at a glance. He shot around one of his ‘stand back. I’ve got this, lads’ looks. “What did you come here for just now, Tobes?” he asked, rolling his eyes at Mike with his complex philosophical queries.

“Oh, to remind you what you promised. The woman who’s coming to stay arrives today.”

“Nice rhyme,” Mike and Peter said together. “Only I think the Beatles got there first,” Peter added. “Yes, we’ll all help, Toby.”

“Thanks.” She was quite pretty, especially when she smiled, Mike thought. He did like petite blondes, especially blue-eyed ones. Why had he never made a play for her? “I just don’t know what to say to a British lady.” _Ah. Right._

“Oh, you say ‘pip pip tally ho’,” Micky told her.

Davy laughed. “That depends on what she looks like.”

“Huh?”

“Tally ho’s the same as giving the view halloo, in hunting. You know, what you say when you see the fox?” Davy explained. “Get it? And is she, Toby?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We exchanged letters, but hers are typed, so it’s hard to tell, right?”

“Leave it,” Davy said to them all, as Mike opened his mouth, Peter frowned and Micky raised his hand. “There’s not enough time.” He jutted his chin at Micky. “So you reckon you’re in with a chance with this…Amelia, is it?”

“Andrea,” Micky corrected.

“Arabella?” Mike suggested.

“ _Allegra_.” Peter grinned.

“ _Alleg_ — Oh, what is this _Allegra_?”

“ _Allegra_ and _andante_ ,” Peter said, not looking at Toby, who was flicking through the hair styling manual, her lips moving as she read.

Mike turned away to laugh.

“This bird?” Davy amended

“Sure! I’m on a lucky streak, man! I got me Deandra and Sandra—pity this one’s name doesn’t rhyme too,” Micky boasted.

“Why do I sense a bet coming up?” Mike mused.

“Hey, guys, you know what I think about betting on people.” Peter frowned.

“All bets are on people!” Davy countered. “If not, what’s football, or boxing, or even horse racing all about?”

“You know what I mean.” Peter wasn’t budging.

“Look, just ’cause you two haven’t had a bird in a while—”

“They have,” Micky interrupted. “They had that roast chicken last week!”

“Ha-ha.” Mike flicked his ear for him. But the exchange did make him think… Was that why he was feeling susceptible, because he hadn’t gotten any in a while? He turned away so no one could read his face and in doing so, caught sight of a sheet of paper ripped in half on the upturned box that served as a patio table on the deck. The paper was being used as place mats—coffee cup rings and a small scribble decorated it.

He lifted the pieces of paper, turned them over and fitted them together…to make a small flyer for the Foreign Agents’ gig. Oh yes! J had sent him the information and Mike had had it briefly before it must have gotten lost in the life of the pad. Who’d used it as mats like that? Mike had wanted to keep it, a reminder of the Foreign Agents’ if not first ‘real’ gig, then their most legitimate one, right on Sunset. Yes, J would be there tonight and—

“Michael’s not into that.”

Mike had missed a little of the continued talk, but looked up at Peter’s voice. “Don’t write me off too soon,” he said. Not when he needed to meet someone to make it stop. _It. This. Peter_ , shaking his head over the laid-down newspaper, then checking out his trimmed bangs in the mirror Micky must have brought outside, caught Mike’s eyes in the reflection. Mike dropped his to the flyer he still held, Peter’s tracking the movement. Yeah. Meet…someone…

“Toby,” he called down to the sand after her retreating figure. “This guest—bring her to the Hullaballoo? We’re going to support a fellow local group. Could be their big break there tonight.”

“Okay.” Toby shaded her eyes to look back up at him. “But how will you recognize her?”

“The London Toby? We’ll figure it out,” Mike assured her.

***

Later, in the pulsating light, pulsating music club, the other three might have been sitting at their table, watching out for someone as clueless and confused as Toby, but Mike was standing watching the group on stage. He didn’t think J had seen him, not by the way he was flirting up a storm with someone right down by the front of the stage. Of course, the club wasn’t that big, meaning most of the dance floor was near the stage, but…

A casual observer might have supposed the blond lead singer was coming on to the brunette in the miniskirt, but Mike kinda thought J’s attention was on the dark-haired guy dancing next to her, especially when J changed the lyrics of the Beatles cover version they were doing—they should write their own stuff—to “I saw him dancing there.” He even pointed to the guy in question. Okay…forget that then. It had been a stupid, desperate idea, anyway, thinking that getting it on with someone else would, well, take his mind off things. As if anyone else was half as interesting or quirky as—

“Well, hello, tall dark and sideburns!” said the self-possessed dark-blonde-haired woman Toby walked over to them. Her English accent was pronounced as she looked from the bottles of Coke on the server’s tray to Mike. “What’s a lady got to do to get a real drink around here?”

“Be over twenty-one,” snapped the waitress, depositing the sodas.

“But I’m gasping for a gin and it,” protested the woman.

“Well, ‘it’s’ not happening here!” Micky jumped from his chair to spring up in between her and Mike. “Hi! I’m Micky, your neighbor. The handsome one.” He tried to elbow Davy at the snort he gave.

“Amanda. The British one,” said the newcomer. She shook Micky’s hand. “Can I really not get alcohol here?”

“The policy is kinda strict here. But I know somewhere where— _Deandra!_ ” Micky yelped.

“Is ‘Deandra’ the name of a pub, or a drink? Or even a local greeting?” Amanda asked, one eyebrow raised.

“She’s here! Mike!” Micky pulled him away a little and spoke into his ear. “She’s here! Over there. Deandra, the dancer!”

“So she is.” Mike peered. “And looks like she’s looking for someone.”

“You.” Davy joined their little huddle, his smug expression saying he knew something about it, before tightening into a smirk…saying he’d arranged it.

“Ooh you little—” Micky’s hands balled into fists.

“What?” Davy challenged.

“Just _little_ ,” Micky scorned dashing off, which he was to do all evening, scurrying between them and another group, between Amanda and Deandra.

“Well, whatdya know—it _does_ rhyme.” Mike had to laugh. He leaned into Peter, who was somehow and for some reason managing to sit cross-legged on the stool next to him. “Gotta admit, Davy does the whole two-chicks-one-venue—”

“—with more class than Micky.” Peter nodded. “Well, he would.”

“He’s had more practice.” Mike nodded too.

“You two are just bloody _adorable_!” cooed Amanda, coming back from the dance floor. She plumped down on the arm of Mike’s chair, her hand on his shoulder preventing him from rising to offer her his seat. “And, you do realize, only a half pouch of good grass and nothing on telly away from making out?”

Peter smiled and Mike blinked at that, glad Davy was too busy coming on to a chick and Micky too busy running over to _his_ chick to hear and so make any reply. He wouldn’t have known what to say in turn. It wasn’t long after that Amanda slid or was pulled down onto his lap. Challenged, Mike slid one hand into her long blonde hair and used the other to cup her face, positioning her for the kiss he laid on her. It was a good kiss, he supposed, on both sides, but…there wasn’t anything there. Well, a warm willing woman in his lap, but…

And it seemed she’d known too. With a wry smile, she dabbed at Mike’s lips for him with a paper napkin, removing any trace of her lipstick, maybe, then leaned across the table. “Wouldn’t it be hot to see two guys making out?” she asked the other chicks who’d gathered at their table. “I know I’d pay good money to see.”

Davy flicked a glance at them. “Thank fu— _sod_ that Micky’s not here. He’d be plotting, planning and _pimping_ on the strength of that.”

***

Mike tried again later, with Amanda. Not that it was a hardship, turning her to him before she could open Toby’s front door and pulling her into his body. When she opened her mouth, maybe to ask a question or deliver a rebuke, he kissed her. Oh, not tiny-growing-bigger or gentle-to-firmer touches and presses of his lips on hers to ease or even persuade her into it—just him opening her mouth with his and sweeping his tongue inside. He slid his hands down her body to cup her pert ass and bring her tight against him, pressing into her softness.

He stilled and broke the kiss, moving off a millimeter or two, for her to pull away. She shimmied her hips a little, pushing the left one out and Mike dropped his right hand from her ass in response. Amanda picked it up and brought it up her body, to her chest. Obediently, Mike closed his hand over her breast, firming his grasp and rubbing his thumb across her nipple. He speared the fingers of his other hand into the hair at her temple, holding her face steady for him to take another long, deep, kiss.

Amanda broke away this time, swallowing, and pressing the back of her hand to her mouth and chin. The smile on her pretty face was wry. “I appreciate the welcome to the neighborhood…Mike, wasn’t it? But your heart’s not in it. Nor any other body parts.”

The last sentence was a low murmur, but he caught it, as he was meant to.

“Unless, you’re just not into the great outdoors and/or an audience?” Amanda continued, the moonlight glinting in her eyes making them darker. “If so, would me asking you in work better?”

 _Would it?_ A tiny pathetic part of Mike was even tempted, despite knowing that it wasn’t honest, wasn’t fair, wasn’t— He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d said to get out of it, and could only hope he hadn’t delivered a blunt confession that it, _her_ , wasn’t what he wanted.

The short drive back to their pad, down the street, was made in silence. Even before Mike cut the engine, Micky dashed into the garage, the word “ _experiment_ ” like a puff of smoke on the night air behind him. Oh no, that would be actual smoke, from the garage. Peter went to go through the front door at the same time as Mike. Mike hung back, letting Peter enter first… walking slowly to disguise the fact that the brush of Peter’s body against his had made him hard.

“Night, Michael,” Peter said, when Mike had his foot on the first step of the spiral staircase. Mike fought not to freeze at the soft, intimate tone, but he did, jerking upright as if he’d been shot in the back. He managed a grunt in reply.

 _Things can’t go on like this. I can’t go on like this._ Sitting in bed, Mike thumped his fist into the pillow in his lap. _I gotta stop being a coward. God, grant me courage_ , he implored.

In the downstairs bedroom, Peter was waiting for his roommate Davy to come back from Toby’s, after he’d spit the scene early to take her home suddenly. “Is she okay?” he asked as soon as Davy came in.

Davy nodded. “Yeah. False alarm. She got her dates mixed up and just suddenly got the idea she was… Well. False alarm.”

“Are _you_ okay?” Peter asked.

“Me? Why— Oh, not _me_.” Davy gathered a few of his lotions for the bathroom. “I was just, well, bothered, for her, you know?” He turned to Peter and narrowed his eyes at the look on his face. “What. What?”

“Tomorrow.” Peter sat up straighter. “Can you go out and take Micky with you? Stay out for the morning? Well, as long as you can, really?”

“Why?” Davy sat on Peter’s mattress when he didn’t answer and read the answer in his face. “Oh. Oh! _Wow._ Have you—”

“No. But I’m going to. Tomorrow.” Peter took a deep, calming breath.

“You’re gonna _pounce_!” Davy clutched his arm.

“Sort of.” Peter swallowed. “I’m going for it, anyway.”

“All right!” Davy thumped his arm this time. Peter preferred the clutching. “Make it happen!”

“I’m…going to try. No—I’m going _to_.” Because it was time. More than. Time for… “MichaelandPeter.”

He’d never said it out loud before, but he was now, in trying to bring it forth into being.

And it sounded _yes_ and it sounded _right_ and it sounded _now_.


	9. October, 1966

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to 70mtt for all the suggestions here!

“Hey, guys…” Peter spun around in search of Davy and Micky, who’d been standing _right there_ just one second ago. How did Mike _do_ this? Know when Davy was about to melt away with a magazine or the radio and stop him in his tracks? Feel when Micky was about to tire of an activity and direct him to another before _bored now_ became _destroy something_? “Davy!” Peter called in triumph, spotting the top of his head walking past the kitchen window. On the outside side. The outside in the morning sun side. “You promised to help get the pad looking…”

He rejected any adjective such as _clean_ , or _tidy_ , or _organized_. “Okay for when Mike comes back,” he finished. “And, Micky…” He had to raise his voice for that, not knowing where he was.

“Never fear, for Micky is here!”

Peter jumped as Micky sprang up right in front of him. Where— He couldn’t have been down a crack in the floorboards, could he? Molten, in liquid state, or airy, in vapor form, and rematerializing into a corporeal body when he chose? _Woah._

“Hmm. That grass you smoked to relax wasn’t as mild as you thought?” Micky, now in white medical coat and with a doctor’s mirror over one eye, peered down at him. “Say ninety-nine—”

‘“And kiss me?”’ Peter couldn’t help completing the song lyric. He’d been thinking of that song recently, with Mike away. ‘ _Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me._ ’ Had even strummed along to the record, that they had in their jukebox. ‘ _While I’m alone and blue as can be…_ ’

“Okay!” Micky planted a smacker on his cheek, making Peter laugh. “See? Not so uptight now!” Micky crowed in triumph.

“No. Just anxious, worried, frustrated…” a returned Davy said, on a sigh.

“Anxious, worried, frustrated? Alone and blue as can be?” Micky leaped up, a packet in his hands. “We have the answer. You need—”

“Two of those words are synonyms.” Peter squared his shoulders and stared his roommates down. “Look, between _you_ slinking off and _you_ distracting me, I…well, I don’t want to get heavy or uptight here—that’s just not my bag—but—”

“You miss Mike.” Micky gave a sympathetic nod. “But not for much longer!” He pointed at the clock, or more accurately at the space where the clock had been.

Peter made a mental note to move something into its place so Mike didn’t notice. He did a neck roll to dispel tension. Micky followed his train of thought. “No point getting hung up over spilt milk, right?”

“Wasn’t milk you spilt on it, though, was it?” Davy sniggered. “You—”

“ _Guys!_ ” Peter wondered how often he’d said that word in that tone in the five days since Mike had left for Texas and his family. “Yes, I miss Mike but I’m also wondering how he does it. Any of it! All of it!” He pointed at the pair of them and the pad.

“I think it’s his height, meeself,” Davy replied.

“You would.” Micky shook his head. “You think _everything_ ’s height-related. ’S’like, when you only got a hammer, everything looks like—”

“A nut.” Davy pointed helpfully at Micky.

“G—” Peter wouldn’t say it again. “Goodness. Gracious. Giggle. Gaiety. Gazebo.” They were all happy G words instead. “Gravy. Gaberdine.” He liked both those things.

“Well, you did it. You broke him. Happy now? ’Cause Mike won’t be.” Davy pushed Micky.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure, my little English friend!” Micky pushed him back. “Peter, I got the answer to all your problems.”

Peter doubted that, seeing as his two biggest problems…were standing in front of him. But… “Go on?”

“You know how you wanted to dress up for when Mike comes home?” Micky shook his head. “Ya gotta dress down! It’s the latest thing. It’s all about the boudoir style, baby!”

“ _Boudoir?_ He’s not putting a negligee on, is he?” Davy asked. “And is that my mag?” He pointed at the glossy pages Micky was flicking through and holding up.

“See? ‘Boudoir celebrates you, how beautiful, confident, and sexy you are. Less is more—more skin, more you. For you and him.’”

About to ask Micky if he’d made at _least_ the last sentence up, Peter found himself under Micky, master of distraction and mind control’s, command, and slipping off his shirt, then his pants…and slipping into the short denim shorts Micky held out. _His_ short denim shorts.

“Are these…shorter?” Peter peered down.

Micky winked and held up a pair of scissors and a handful of frayed denim. “Know what I’m gonna do now?” he inquired.

“Put those bloody scissors down, I hope, Sweeney Todd,” Davy replied, clutching his own pants.

“I’m gonna paint your toenails for you, like the magazine says.”

“Is that my polish?” Davy pointed at the small glass bottle in Micky’s hand.

It was actually quite relaxing, Peter found—although not a patch on his spa day with Amanda—to sit back with one foot in Micky’s lap and the other in Davy’s, who’d come to criticize and stayed to paint. Thankfully they avoided the soles of his feet and only touched his toes. Even the stray sentences that drifted up—“This candy apple red’s a bit slutty,” “Try the hot pink. Oh no, switch to sheer pink.” “Not a coral. See? Told you.”—didn’t break his almost meditative state.

“Well?” demanded two voices, and Peter came to.

“I’m…speechless,” he admitted blinking at his one vamp-red and one shell-pink foot. “Madonna _and_ whore? Is that the effect? I like it,” he hastened to add, wondering how to get it off. “Sorry, guys. I’m weirdly a little nervous.”

“Oh, about the beard.” Micky nodded.

Peter rubbed his chin. His whiskers had grown a lot in five days. “Does it look—”

“Sexy,” “Scruffy,” said Micky and Davy at the same time, then glared at each other. “Scruffy sexy,” they said, in unison.

“Thanks… But I’m not nervous about that. Well, I wasn’t…” It was more that Mike was using the occasion of the visit, the plane tickets he’d been sent, to tell his family—his mother—about himandPeter. “I wanted things nice for him to come back to.” He tried not to notice the half-painted wall where Micky had grown bored with his ambitious mural, or the half-built elevator to the second floor ditto.

“Not long now, big Peter.” Micky blew a little on Peter’s toenails…which got him a little revved. He closed his eyes. “What you most looking forward to when Mike gets back?”

“Umm…probably getting head. I love Mike going down on me. Or maybe just him jacking me. I love his hands on me, too.” Peter smiled at the memories. “The way he curls his hand so tight…and if he uses his other hand, the way that fist doesn’t close as well makes it a totally different feel. I’ve been thinking—” He opened his eyes to see two frozen expressions. “Oh…you didn’t mean… Ah.”

“We know you’ve been ‘thinking’ about it.” Davy gathered up his bottles of nail varnish “The bed squeaks. I’m _really_ glad we promised to make ourselves scarce when Mike arrives.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to Mike coming back and being in bed with you again.” Micky ignored Davy’s interjection of “Perv.” “I’ll get my Ted back!”

Peter hadn’t liked sleeping on his own, not one bit. He wondered how Mike had fared. Micky had offered to lend Peter his Ted. Well, offered to share his bed, but Peter had turned him down. He’d taken Ted though, in lieu.

“Thanks, Micky.” Peter studied his feet again. “These look nice.”

“Ya got nice toes,” Micky opined.

Peter used his nice toes to kick a few stray magazines and newspapers under the couch. Davy and Micky weren’t going to do anything more. “You two could go now,” he suggested.

“Nah. We want to see what he brought us,” Davy admitted.

The sound of a cab pulling up had them all staring, more so when Mike got out…and held the door open for a slim pretty young woman, perhaps a little younger than him. Peter slipped his feet into his sandals and his arms into his shirt. What—

“Oh. He brought us back a blonde bird.” Davy shrugged

Micky rubbed his hands together then stopped. “Wait. Just one?”

“He’s always telling us to learn to share,” Davy reasoned.

They all stared more as Mike came in…his beard thicker and darker than Peter’s.

“Matched set!” Davy commented, pushing Peter toward Mike.

“Howdy, y’all. Say, what happened to the clock?” came Mike’s first words, even before he put down their cases, his eyes going straight to the space on the wall.

With an, “Oh, we had an earthquake,” Micky threw himself into a hug, then stood and looked expectantly at the blonde.

Davy shoved Peter again, right into Mike’s arms…for a too-loose, too-quick hug, from which Mike soon disengaged, his eyes on Peter’s.

“This is Cousin Lucy.” Silence greeted his tone, and Mike looked from one to another. “You…got my card? That Lucy—” He pulled her out of the way as Bobby the postal worker pushed through the doorway.

“For Peter, Davy, and Micky! All the way from Texas,” the mailman announced, waving a rectangle with a picture on its front.

“Thanks, Bobby.” Peter recovered. “I guess we got your card now.”

Bobby saluted and left.

“And this is she.” Mike scowled at Micky who had taken Lucy’s hand and, down on one knee, was kissing the back. “Lucy here’s in dire need of a break so Aunt Kate and Mom thought it a good idea she come here for a spell.”

Peter tried hard but couldn’t gauge how Mike felt about it. He was putting up a good front.

“It’s surely mighty kind of y’all—” Lucy said at the same time Peter said, “You’re most welcome. Right, guys?” And he’d used the G word again.

And during a burble of more welcomes and thanks and Lucy going to freshen up, he stared at Mike, who stared back, both unspeaking.

“Davy, what’s going on?” Micky whispered.

“Not sure,” Davy whispered back. “Could be the beards…”

“No. That’s fucken gorgeous.” Mike raised a hand to stroke it.

“It is.” Peter couldn’t resist feeling Mike’s, dropping his hand as quickly as Mike did when the bathroom door opened. Those few seconds had been slightly more how he’d envisaged their reunion, but—

“That’s better.” Toiletries bag once again tucked away, Lucy looked at the group. “I hope it’s okay, me—”

“Yes, of course!” Micky threw his arms open wide. “I’ll take your case. Lucy’s in here, with me, I mean us, right?”

“No, we’re all upstairs. The upstairs room is bigger,” Mike answered, his eyes still on Peter.

“Why, I don’t want to be the cause of any trouble!” Lucy exclaimed.

“It’s no trouble,” Mike assured her, the others making noises of agreement. “Especially when this contraption’s already here.” Mike blinked at the winch and platform set up at the side of the staircase. “Which will be dismantled after. As will that mural either be finished or painted over.”

“Go with painted over,” Davy advised. “Michelangelo Dolenzio here started the Garden of Eden and he’s done the Adam and just getting to the Eve bit. Only hampered by lack of a female model…”

“Who’d he use for Ad—never mind.” Mike gazed at the curly-haired male figure depicted in a…highly idealized, very highly flattering fashion. “I figured it out.”

“Well, it’s very…colorful,” Lucy commented with a smile. “And who’s to say there wasn’t a hamburger shack and a swing set in the Garden, huh?”

“Ya did an LA version?” Mike closed his eyes for a second. “Micky, why don’t you take Lucy around the neighborhood, show her your inspiration, while we do this?” He tried to drag his eyes from Peter.

“Why, of course I’m helping!”

And she did, being strong and able, helping them hoist the bed up plus the foldaway cot bed, then went down to help Micky and Davy bring up what they’d need. “I’ll stay at the door down there too,” she promised Mike, who’d ensured she didn’t see into the upstairs bedroom…with its double bed.

Briefly alone with Peter, Mike looked at the nightstand, and the bag sitting on its top. _Just as well I hadn’t set out the welcome home surprises_ , Peter thought. Would they even get a chance to enjoy them now? “It’s going to be a little cramped in here,” he began, trusting Mike would understand he referred to their _style_ being cramped, their activities being curtailed. He was aching already and suspected Mike was too. “I want you to have a visitor, a member of your family, of course, but have you thought about asking Toby if your cousin could stay with her?”

“With Amanda and Belle stopping, plus her brother?” Davy entered and deposited an armful of stuff on the chest of drawers. “No room.”

“Well, talking of the No-Room…” Peter continued.

“Take me an age to dismantle the high-intensity discharge lights, the exhaust fans, and move all the…soil in there.” Micky looked shifty. “And don’t any of you open the door there for a few days, huh?”

Mike sat on the bed, naked longing in his eyes, and reached for Peter’s hand. Peter, raw with _want_ and _need_ and _please_ , slid automatically into his lap, his heart thundering, his lips parting. Mike’s pupils dilated. But as soon as Mike’s hand cupped Peter’s nape, Lucy’s voice from below had him freezing. “This…wasn’t a good idea,” he admitted ruefully.

“Nope.” Just the touch of his hand and the contact of their bodies had Peter as hard as Mike, and as desperate to be alone with him. He climbed carefully off Mike, trying not to brush any part of himself on any part of Mike…especially certain swollen parts.

With an, “Ah, young love! Leave it to me,” Micky bounded from the room. “Lucy!” they heard him calling. “What say we go down to the beach and take a nice swim while—”

“I ogle you in your swimsuit which is hopefully but unlikely to be a monokini,” Davy muttered.

Mike bristled and stood.

“That’s very kind, but I have to unpack first,” came in a Texan accent. “Don’t want deep creases in my clothes, now!”

“Lads, let me.” Davy cracked his knuckles and left the room, sparing himself a glance in the mirror on the way, then coming back for a second one, to doublecheck, before leaving again.

Peter and Mike hung over the balcony to watch him at work.

“And after that, how about a nice stroll along the prom before dinner, stretch your legs after the journey…and get to know each other?” he asked, layering on his English accent.

“Before dinner? Why, I’ll _cook_ dinner!” Lucy came to her bedroom door. “And visit with you while I’m cooking, get to know y’all that way!”

And she did. During the cooking and the eating and the clearing up, the latter of which was a production line of scraping, washing, drying, and putting away.

“She’s kinda like if Mike and Millie had a baby,” observed Davy, on a stool, stacking away dishes. “A lot of blokes like bossy birds. Look at you and Amanda—” He half-turned. “Sorry, sorry. The ex-love that we must not speak its name. But my point stands. Some blokes dig ’em.”

Mike seemed to, Peter thought. Only his tended to be brunette. Was this the root of it? He reached around Mike to turn a plant on the kitchen windowsill around, sweeping a hand across Mike’s lower back and ass as he did so. Mike froze, as though shot in the back, and a glance down showed Peter Mike’s posture hadn’t been the only thing to stiffen. The look of anguish in his eyes…

Mike flicked his gaze over to his cousin. “Maybe Lucy’ll go to bed right away now, after dinner,” he whispered.

Lucy…showed family albums now, after dinner. Well, a selection of photos of Mike, at various stages of his life, including the requisite baby pics…

“Oh wow!” Micky seized on the ubiquitous bearskin rug snapshot. “He was always big! A-a…big baby, I mean.”

Peter, in reaching around behind Davy to hit Micky upside the head, found his hand tangling with Mike’s, who’d stretched around to do the same thing. Even that brief contact had them shifting in their seats.

“Well, I guess I’d gonna turn in. I’m bushed with all the traveling and it’ll give y’all time to catch up. Thanks for offering to show me around tomorrow—I’m sure looking forward to it. Good night.” Lucy stood, making for the bathroom first.

“Night,” called Davy. “The room’s close to the den, so it can get noisy, but I’ll make sure Peter and Mike…keep it down.”

“Ha ha. What was that?” Peter asked him. “A little joke…” He emphasized the little.

“About this big?” Mike finished for him, holding his finger and thumb apart.

“It was bigger than that in that bearskin rug picture!” Micky was evidently still obsessing.

Peter waited for Lucy to fill herself a glass of water and shut the downstairs bedroom door behind her. “Michael?” Testing a theory he hoped was wrong, Peter patted the space on the couch next to him. He and Mike usually sat there, Micky on the rug in front of them and Davy in the big chair.

Even if there was nothing decent on TV, they’d listen to music, noodle on their instruments, noting down half-phrases of words or music, or even read aloud…as one another, doing the voice and inserting the person’s verbal tics and catchphrases in. Mike had argued that he’d never said “Darn tootin’” in his life, and Davy had objected to “I say, what what,” with an, “I’m from Manchester, not Mayfair, you barm cake.”

If not that, they usually had some silly game or other going, and he and Mike would sit as close as they could and cuddle up a little all through it. “Michael?”

“Not yet.” Mike hadn’t budged from the wooden chair. “Lucy could still come out.”

“Is she, what, very religious?” Davy asked.

“Mike! Did you spring her from a nunnery?” Micky hissed.

“Neither, I’m guessing.” Peter stood, despite the cold weight trying to drag him down. “I’m calling a pad meeting. In the bedroom. Now.”

“A bedroom meeting.” Micky stood too. “I like the sound of that.”

Peter let his face say that not everyone present would be enjoying it. In the bedroom, he closed the door when they were all in. When Mike asked a defensive, “What?” Peter knew he was right.

“She doesn’t know about us because you didn’t tell your family. Yes?”

“It wasn’t the right time!” Mike raised his voice over Micky’s gasp. “What? So we just have to be careful, that’s all. Oh and avoid Toby—you know how she is. She’ll give the game away.”

“That stinks, man.” Davy pointed a finger at Mike. “You’ve gone and hurt Peter, _and_ after he got all nice for you. Look.”

Mike nodded at the nightstand, where a couple of his favorite LPS rested, ready to play on the Dansette, and next to them a half bottle of a white wine he liked. Peter had gotten a new candle as well, spending a good long while choosing the scent. It…wasn’t the only thing he’d picked up at the head shop. Peter had chosen a nice and easy strain to mellow them out. “I saw.” The look in his eye was soft.

“Not the things, him!” He nudged Peter, who slipped off his sandals and stuck out a foot.

“What— Oh. Oh my. Oh my blessed stars. Oh my merciful heavens.” Mike sounded like the impersonation they did of him and the gulp he gave on seeing Peter’s painted toenails was loud.

Peter understood Davy’s look of triumph and the reason behind his action. Davy looked out for him, especially over Mike hurting him in any way, and now he’d made Mike hurt. Peter, too, was petty enough to relish the flare of arousal in Mike’s eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he snatched up a tumbler of water from the chest of drawers and drained it in a huge swallow. He coughed, so Peter patted him on the back, which made him shift away. Yep, hard again.

“Babe, I’m sorry I didn’t tell them. I’ll explain later,” Mike promised him.

Peter gave a small nod. He wouldn’t Peter out over this. Wouldn’t build up a huge, negative picture. Wouldn’t panic. Wouldn’t cry. He stroked Mike’s face and Mike reached for him and—

“Hey, Romeo and Julio, give over. Pack that right in. Look what you’ve done.” Davy took away the bag of popcorn that’d appeared in Micky’s hands as he sat on a chair that hadn’t been in the room before, watching them avidly. “We’ll need rules,” Davy continued, “about sharing a room now you two are an item. Right, Mick?”

“Ye-ah?”

“Because way I see it, we’re not gonna be able to bring birds back, way things are.” He waved a hand around at the four of them and the four-beds-in-a-room situation. “So if I can’t get my end away. I don’t see why you pair should be getting it on. Micky?”

“Well…” His face was agonized.

“Pervert.” Davy threw the popcorn at him. “Obviously, you two can do what you like out of sight.”

“Outta sight!” Micky agreed. “And hey, you know, I don’t mind sharing the double bed with you, Peter, so you and Mike aren’t faced with temptation, like Adam and Eve in the—”

“Burger shack.” Davy rolled his eyes.

“Oh, you don’t, huh? Well I do!” Mike declared, glaring at Micky. “Peter?”

Peter gave a studiedly casual one-shoulder shrug. “I’m easy.”

“ _Peter!_ ”

Mike’s yelp was balm to his ears all through them using the bathroom and washing and changing for bed when Mike’s contrite, humble, “ _Peter,_ ” got to him. He let Mike pull him into bed and wrap his arms and legs around him to hold him tight, so very tight, on top of him where Peter cuddled under his neck, Mike’s newly bearded chin on the top of his head, in that way that made him feel so cherished. He rubbed his now-bewhiskered face into Mike’s chest, enjoying the sensation and Mike’s reaction.

Mike dropped kiss after kiss onto Peter’s head and forehead, the only parts he could reach. He undulated, to make Peter turn his face up. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, covering his face with tiny dots and dashes of kisses. “Do you forgive me?”

“I will. But let me process,” Peter replied.

“I’ll make it up to you.” Mike illustrated his meaning by easing Peter off his body and turning them both onto their sides, facing each other. He sneaked his hand down in between their bodies.

“I missed you,” Peter confessed. “Missed this.” He pushed up into Mike’s fist.

“Let me take care of you, darlin’,” Mike whispered. “You—”

“Oi!” Davy barged in, slapping the overhead light on, his steps heavy. “Hands where we can see ’em!”

“Oh, come on! We were being quiet!” Mike protested.

“For now. But you get noisy. Especially Peter. And you know what Micky’s like at the cinema or at a concert, how…enthusiastically he joins in. Not just miming along, but getting really involved…singing along, imitating what he sees…” He pointed over at an unnaturally quiet Micky in the put-u-up cot.

“Oh, Jesus,” Mike sighed

“Oh, Adam and Eve,” Peter said.

“Oh, what is this Adam and— What was going on when I was away?” Mike looked from Peter to Davy.

“Micky…went to bible class and art workshop and did a shift in the burger kiosk and got a little…” Peter trailed off.

“Mixed up? Carried away?”

“All of the above.” Davy scowled.

“Blonde?”

“ _S_ ,” Peter answered Mike. “Plural. It’s been…trying.”

They settled down and Davy switched off the light. Mike sniffed. “Why…does the pillow smell of my cologne when I ain’t been here?”

“Same reason this does.” Peter slid out Mike’s Triumph T-shirt from under his pillow. “I splashed your cologne on it and I’ve been wearing it in bed. And your lucky boxers. I missed you so much.”

“Oh, darlin’!” Mike wiped a tear from Peter’s eye and stroked at his beard. “I did the same with your night clothes too.”

“Pete’s bunny jammies? I’d love to see that,” came from the foldaway bed, as did an, “Ow!” Mike had an accurate throwing arm with a pillow, even in the dark.

“We’ll sneak off,” he promised Peter. “I’ll make it up to you when we’re alone.”

While the idea of Mike on his knees before him, su…pplicant, was good, Peter wouldn’t let him have things too easy. He lay there planning, until, despite his frustration, he, like Mike, fell asleep.


	10. October, 1966 part two

The next day started off poorly and would—Mike had no doubt—get worse. Maybe started off bizarrely would be a better description? Well, what was he supposed to call it when he woke with his hand curled into what he thought was Peter’s hair, before deciding it must be resting on his new beard—his beyond gorgeous and off-the-charts-sexy beard—and so flexed his fingers and stroked…only to discover he was cuddling a fucken teddy bear? Should it be labelled deceptive? Disappointing? Mike went with _enraging_.

“What’s this doing in my bed?” he demanded, his voice morning-gruff. He sat up and brought the stuffed toy to his eyes to squint at it. “Micky, this is your Ted!”

“Ooh, we doing the Three Bears, in rhyme?” came from the cot. “I’ve often thought Davy’d make a great Goldilocks.”

Davy’s two-word reply showed his opinion on that, or perhaps the scene unfolding in general, and the, “Perv,” tacked on the end showed his opinion of Micky’s…opinion.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Mike warned…whoever.

“I lent him to Peter when he didn’t want to cuddle up to me,” Micky explained.

“Good,” Mike spat.

“Which part?”

“I don’t know!” Mike yelled.

“Ooh, crabby.” Micky sat too. “Is it a grouch? Is it a monster? No, it’s pre-coffee Mike.” He meeped and swung wildly to catch his Ted. Mike had hurled that too. Micky inhaled. “This smells of you too, Mike! It’ll be like I’m sleeping with you!”

“ _Sodding_ perv!” came from Davy. He rummaged and a second later Micky ducked the missile he’d thrown. “You like sleeping with things that smell of us? Enjoy my dirty socks, then.”

Mike wrapped his pillow around his head not to hear Micky ask Davy why, exactly, the socks had been so close at hand and how, exactly, were they dirty and— 

Peter wasn’t there.

Waking without him, especially after so many days being without him, made everything poor and disappointing and, yeah, enraging.

Okay, so Peter was downstairs when Mike got there, but that didn’t make things better. Not when the peanut gallery thought the Mike and Peter so near and yet so far situation funny, and had seemingly just discovered innuendo. The actual _word_ innuendo…

“In- _you_ -end: no.” Micky pointed from Peter to him and struck the table in his mirth. “No, wait— In-you-end: no- _go_!”

Mike bent low to bring his face close to Micky’s laughing one, infusing his expression and tone with menace. “That makes no sense, boy. How about I make you make sense?”

In the silence that followed this, while both Micky and Mike tried to work out Mike’s words, Peter slapped a mug of coffee into Mike’s hand, and he grabbed it like a lifeline. It was too hot, but he gulped it down gratefully, stroking the back of Peter’s hand in thanks. _Wait. If Micky and Davy were down here, the bedroom was empty…_ He raised his eyebrows at Peter and jerked his head…just as Lucy emerged from her room.

“Sleep well?” Davy inquired. “Hope _you_ weren’t tossing all night.”

“Mike, what about these ripe tomatoes?” Micky asked, his head in the icebox. “They look ready to burst. They go together with a nice big juicy sausage, don’t you think?”

“Or two…” Davy aimed his gaze from Mike to Peter.

“What was that English expression you told me the other day… Oh yeah! Meat and two veg.” Micky nodded.

“Mike, will you be having a rummage around your bits and pieces later?” Davy put a cautious distance between him and Mike as he asked this question. “Unpacking?”

If Lucy was puzzled to find herself offered cereal instead of all the other food items that had been mentioned, she didn’t show it. Mike looked to Peter for help and backup, but Peter was too busy diving for the phone when it rang. Probably Toby. She’d come spend time with Lucy on the beach. Well, Lucy, Davy and Micky, and Mike and Peter could join them later, after they’d…reunited. Thoroughly. At least once each. The first time quickly, the pace quick and probably a bit brutal. And then after—

“So we can all meet up later?” Peter glanced from Lucy to Mike. “Michael, you catch any of that? I said I’d agreed to do some session work after all. I’d said I couldn’t, with—”

 _Me coming home and us being horny as fuck_ , Mike’s brain supplied. _Horny to fuck._

“But Lucy—”

_Makes Three. No, my cowardice makes three. And so put a damper on that._

“Assured me she’s perfectly fine with it,” Peter finished.

“I don’t expect anyone to change their plans because I’m here,” she insisted. “And especially when you have to work.”

 _And not be around hypocrisy. Or sexual tension._ Those were Peter’s thoughts, easily read in the steady gaze he levelled at Mike, making him drop his.

“Who’s it for? The session?”

“Oh, it’s playing celeste and harpsichord. Up at Halo Studios on Sunset.”

The vagueness had Mike pausing, mid-shake of his cereal into his bowl. He waited for Lucy’s congratulations and comments to stop.

“Not what or where. Who.”

“You remember the Pelicans?”

“I don’t remember them having fancy keyboards.” Micky stirred the orange juice prior to pouring it on his Frosted Flakes.

“They split up. Two of them formed a new act, more sort of folk-leaning.”

Mike scoffed. “Those guys have the worst timing, and I’m not talking about their playing. They came to surf pop after the wave had passed and now to folk after the boom’s over?”

“I’ll pass on your constructive criticism to Logan.” Peter took a sip of his tea and eyed Mike over the rim. “If you remember him…”

“Logan? _Logan._ ” Mike fought to keep the grim from his voice. He did. The blond he’d suspected Peter had a soft spot for. He battled the wave of negativity trying to wash over him. “As long as it’s not a hard spot for him,” he muttered, only realizing he’d spoken out loud when everyone around the table turned to him. “Hard spots for him to play,” he finished weakly, indicating Peter and hoping Lucy knew no musical terms whatsoever.

He managed a quick stroke of Peter’s face and to drop the sweetest, softest kiss on his lips as he saw him off, hidden from the pad by the open door and from Beechwood—Mike prayed—by their drive. Not sweet, _bittersweet_ , he decided, hoping his eyes expressed all the regret for what he’d failed to do and hadn’t been able to say, and his promise to do better, to say…all the things in his heart.

He tried not to feel there was disappointment and, oh God, sadness in Peter’s gaze. Mike watched him drive off in Toby’s car, stationed on their drive, which reminded him that Toby had just arrived to meet and help entertain Lucy, and that he had a Toby-related favor to ask…of Micky…

“But carefully!” he cautioned Micky, having explained undercover of needing Micky to check something over on the Monkeemobile with him. Oh God. This was a stupid plan. “You think you can do it?”

“I know I can!” Beating his chest and dressed like Tarzan for some reason, Micky bounded into the pad…and swung on a rope to sweep Toby up into the No-Room.

 _Maybe it’s not that stupid_ , Mike told himself, observing Toby warily as she exited the closet a few minutes later. Micky, normally dressed once more, followed, giving a huge thumbs-up. _Yeah, should have said discreetly as well as carefully._

The plan _was_ that stupid. In fact, not just stupid but _very_ stupid. Asking Micky to hypnotize Toby so she didn’t say anything about him and Peter? She probably didn’t even remember they were involved, anyway! “Micky…” Mike hissed, halfway through the morning, down on the sand, when the flaw in the plan—or rather in its execution—had become obvious.

“What? It worked, didn’t it?” Micky replied.

“Too well! Toby not saying anything about me includes _to_ me! It’s like she can’t see me!” It had made for some strange interactions while showing Lucy the neighborhood and saying howdy to a couple of neighbors, and walking her down the sand to see the small esplanade, or boardwalk, at the end of the beach, and the long pier sticking out over the water.

“Ah. I think I know what happened. It must have been the wording. I said for her to forget all about you and Peter and— Look over there!” When a confused Mike gazed in the direction Micky was pointing, Micky took off running before an angry Mike could hit him.

“How long does it last? It’d better wear off, boy!” he shouted after the curly-haired figure vanishing around the corner.

“Is Toby mad at you?” Lucy asked later, when they’d all been brave enough to swim, in honor of her first time at a Pacific Ocean beach. “She’s not talking to you.”

“Oh, well, just a misunderstanding.” Mike busied himself with his towel to avoid meeting her eye.

Lucy nodded. “I can see she must have a few of those. It’s good you all look out for her. Very kind. Most neighborly. Especially Davy.”

Did he? Was he? How? And did Mike want to know? _Probably best not to_ , he reasoned, missing Peter so much, so _fiercely_ , that he ached. Later couldn’t come soon enough, but first there was the day to get through…

***

“I can’t believe I’m in Hollywood!” Lucy almost squealed, sounding most unlike herself, her blonde hair blowing loose and long in the breeze from where she had her head stuck out of the Monkeemobile’s window, determined not to miss one second of the sights as Mike drove slowly along the palm-tree-lined boulevard, with the hills as backdrop.

She sat again, laughing as she pulled her messed-up hair away from her face. “Mike, is this why you don’t wear your wool hats anymore?”

“Maybe,” he agreed, catching her eye in the rear view mirror. He was driving, as usual. “Plus I’m used to the cold here, now. I still got ’em, though.”

“Did you knit them, Lucy?” Micky asked.

“Yeah. And after I’ve seen your cute band shirts, I got an idea for this year’s birthday hat!”

“She is just like Millie!” Micky whispered to Davy. “Think they’re related?”

“Apologies to y’all in advance for bein’ such a country bumpkin, with a list of things to do and see,” said Lucy after they’d stationed and she was peering into store windows and at people, hoping to see celebrities wandering about the boulevards. “I hope we don’t meet any of your cool friends now!”

“Why, I just love me a hayseed, and ma’am, you are the most beautiful hayseed in the whole barn,” Micky declared, taking Lucy’s hand when she went to thump him.

“And you can’t spell chic without rhusticc. If you’re Micky, that is,” Davy said, taking her other hand.

Toby was taking pictures with Lucy’s camera for her. They were good kids, Mike conceded. And they were unlikely to bump into anyone they knew, on the tourist trail. “You sure you want to eat here?” he asked his cousin, when she stopped outside the deli that matched the name on her list. “It’s kinda…ethnic.” He scowled at Micky and Davy’s sniggers.

“Mike knows a good Texan diner,” Micky added helpfully.

“I have to eat at the place when Lana Turner was discovered sitting at the counter!” Lucy stated. “Then I have to the drugstore where Marilyn was discovered standing at the counter. And then the clothes store where Errol Flynn—”

“Went AWOL, _behind_ the lingerie counter?” Micky broke in, making Lucy laugh.

Mike doubted it had been this deli or that drugstore but… After lunch and soda and gawking around a store, they visited the Chinese Theater, the Egyptian Theatre, and the Walk of Fame. He’d forgotten how much she loved old movies and their actors, and she wanted to photograph a lot of the five-pointed terrazzo and brass stars.

Yelps of “Humphrey Bogart!” and “Lauren Bacall!” came from her. “Look at this one, Micky—I believe you do an impersonation of the inimitable Jimmy Cagney, right?”

Had he really told her that? He began to try to recall other things about his roommates he might have mentioned…

“You’ll be here one day. All of you,” Lucy prophesized.

***

“Mike?” Micky, in the seat behind, tugged on his sleeve when they set off again, for Sunset Boulevard this time. “Mike, you let Lucy drive the Monkeemobile?”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed. Habit, I guess.” Mike shrugged.

“Who d’you think taught him?” Lucy called out.

“You?” Davy gasped.

“Who else? Why do you think he’s so good?” She sped up a little on the wide boulevard. “Although I don’t know how you manage on these tiny, crowded roads, cousin.”

Early twilight was a little early to go to a club, but the All Hangout was more of a mixed bag and a mixed vibe, catching the after-work crowd who came in for a beer and stayed on for the music and groups. It was also their semi-regular place of work, with the Duke Box still closed for a refit.

They were barely inside the place before Mike felt a hard poke in his ribs from behind and a gruff voice demanded, “Stick ’em up, Nesmith!” He spun around.

“Amanda!” His hand went to his chest. “Ya gave me a Monkee scare there!” he told their beige-blonde English on-and-off neighbor.

“Medium?” she inquired, hope in her voice. Despite trying to rock Mike’s cool, she’d never gotten beyond a small, and now grrr’ed at his head shake. She cast her eye over the group, her gaze landing on Lucy, and her new Hollywood-emblazoned hat and the several new pins on her blouse. “Oh, you’re embracing the glorious kitsch of it all?”

“Ma’am,” Lucy said, after a pause. “I know you’re not asking me if I’m intimate with a boyfriend whose surname’s Kitsch, for instance, but I’m afraid I don’t speak very much British, so I don’t understand your question. As such, you’ll have to accept my apologies for not being able to make you an answer. Oh, and you are?”

“Sorry—my cousin Lucy, Toby’s roommate Amanda.” Mike did the introductions.

“I’m sorry.” Amanda sighed as she went to kiss Lucy on the cheek, then held out her hand to shake when Lucy stepped back. “I’ve had the shittiest day at work known to man or woman, and I need a Monkee cuddle.” She held out her arms. “Well, a half-Monkees cuddle.”

Her glance at Micky was pointed, even as Mike and Davy obediently stepped up to pull her into an embrace, squeezing her tight for a few seconds. “Thanks. That’s better,” she said. “And Monkees movie night will make it _all_ better.” She pointed at the table Micky was making for. “Oh, not sitting with Peter?”

“What? Where?” Mike demanded.

“Over there in that wall booth.”

Mike stalked over, leaving Amanda getting to know Lucy in his wake. “Hey.” Peter was with blond ex-sunshine-pop-maker Logan, and the other guy looked familiar too. “Logan and…Mark, right? Former Pelicans?”

“Michael…and Davy and Micky. Current Monkees.” Peter did the introductions, sliding around to make room. The booth was one of the biggest ones. Well, they’d be a fairly big party, when everyone got here…which would make it easier to sneak off… “Lucy and Toby and Amanda,” he continued as they all piled in. “One more to come any minute now.” At least, that was what they’d arranged.

“Sugar.” Mike, next to Peter, his leg brushing his, couldn’t not call him by the endearment he reserved for him. “Sugar. Those little sugar donuts—do they do ’em here? I love ’em.”

The smile that took over Peter’s face was like the sun coming out in Mike’s day. No. Screw that. In his _life_. “I know you do. Honey.” He gestured at the wall behind them. “Would you say this color was honey?”

“I’d say so.” Mike’s smile split his face too.

Micky sniggered, and Mike turned to him. “Talking of sweet things, Mark’s last name’s Berry,” he muttered, pointing from one ex-Pelican to another.

“And?” Mike didn’t get it.

“Well, what do you think they’re gonna call a new and kinda hokey folky act? If they blend one first and one last name?”

“Logan…berry?” Mike sniggered too, trying to hide it from Peter, who was luckily occupied answering Lucy’s questions about the studio work.

Amanda shot them a dirty look, and smoothed her face out when Mike caught it. He was sorry things hadn’t worked out between her and Micky, but glad she didn’t know the whole story.

“I briefly dated Micky,” she was explaining to Lucy, her eyes on Micky. “But it was too difficult to be the girlfriend of an up-and-coming musician. Well, too much for me, anyway.”

“He’s too busy?” Lucy frowned.

“Too groovy! Girls throw themselves at him and get mad if he doesn’t want them. Oh yes, you might think that’s an exaggeration, but it happened on a TV show the group was performing on! It was bedlam!”

Yeah, they were all really glad Amanda didn’t know the whole story, what some of the _LA Live_ debacle, the incident that still had Mike hanging his head in shame to think about, had been about.

“I guess musicians meet a lot of women. All the concerts and shows…” Lucy was trying to understand.

“Yes, so even if they’re faithful, they’re tempted. Wandering eye and all that. I’m not mature enough to handle that properly.” Amanda threw Micky a brave smile. “I’d be much too bossy and dominating in response, and imagine poor Micky tied down. Shackled… And me cracking the whip.”

Had there been any need for that imagery? Mike didn’t think so, and neither did ‘poor Micky’ by the way he squirmed in his seat, then meeped out an incomprehensible excuse and fled.

“Oh, you’ll have your choice of men!” Lucy assured Amanda. “Just pick a good one!”

Which kind of gave Mike an idea, one that solidified when he glimpsed Belle, Toby’s weekend lodger, over by the door, presumably just arrived and looking for them. “I’ll get the drinks,” he offered. “Peter, you come help?”

He’d been antsy so wasn’t surprised when Peter swung him behind a group of people for privacy.

“What, Michael.”

“Don’t get mad, and just hear me out. And by that I mean I’m figuring this out as I’m talking.” Mike stood as close to Peter as society allowed. “What about if we ask Belle to pretend to be with you?”

“To pretend…” Peter swallowed.

“I’m asking your opinion. I’m not just—” Mike saw him looking back at the booth, at Lucy. “Yeah, Lucy’s been asking if we have chicks and if not why not, so this way at least one of us would. And it’d only for as long as she’s here. Couple of days, tops.”

“Michael. You know my opinions on pretence and lying, because that’s what this is!”

“ _Pete—_ ” Mike looked around to see if anyone had heard that vehement shout.

“I’ll do it.”

Someone had. Amanda. Mike hadn’t seen her, but she wriggled in between them now. “I’m up for it, Mike, if you are.” She spoke to him and not Peter. “We can say we were dancing around it, because of various reasons”—she threw a glare over at the bar, at Micky—“but now we decided to go for it.”

“’Manda…” Mike glanced over at Micky too.

“Peter, nothing will happen,” Amanda promised.

“I know,” he replied, waving…waving Belle over.

Mike…didn’t like this. Peter wasn’t acquiescing, wasn’t spurred on by competition from a fake Amanda-Mike pairing to go one better. He wasn’t Micky, or Davy. “Peter,” he started, but his attempt at a brake was shrugged off. Literally—Peter turned away to wrap an arm around Belle and draw her, and thus them, farther into a more concealed spot.

“Hello, there. Good to see you. Sorry to burst this on you like this, but we have something to ask you.”

Mike didn’t need Amanda’s tiny head shake telling him not to get his hopes up.

“Sounds serious.” Belle glanced from one to another. “Is…everything okay? Nice beards. And nice to have you back, Mike.”

“No, everything’s fine. And thanks. Just, as a friend of ours, I’m sure you’ve guessed by now that Michael and I are a couple. You’re very understanding and progressive, not to mention discreet, which we appreciate.”

Oh, he was _slick_. And looking right into the brunette’s big brown eyes, in the way she usually tried to look into his. Her pink-painted mouth was hanging open. Mike betted she’d had no idea. Well, this would ensure she put any _other_ idea right out of her pretty little head.

“We don’t flaunt it, but we don’t hide it. Well…” And oh, the timing of that pause and the tiniest amount of sadness and regret in the glance he flickered Mike’s way. Well, he’d known Peter played any number of instruments expertly. “Michael hasn’t told his family about us, and his cousin came back to LA with him.” Peter gestured toward their table. “So it’s forcing me to ask you—”

 _He’s doing this on purpose_ , Mike fumed. _Making me think—_

“To be even more subtle than usual about our relationship over this weekend,” Peter finished. “Well, I’m happy there are no secrets, that everything’s clear.”

Mike barely heard Belle’s stammered replies, being too busy exchanging an eye roll with Amanda. That little minx understood. She had no scruples about dissembling. “You can rely on me to do what I can,” she said to him, the ambiguity ringing, and he was half-tempted to take her up on her offer. No. Not with Peter’s steady gaze on him. Mike stared back, their eyes locking as they had yesterday when he’d arrived.

“Let’s go someplace to talk,” he said.

“Well, I think that’s our cue to get some drinks. I should think everyone’s as parched as cuttlefishes by now.” Amanda nudged Belle over to the bar.

Mike set off after them, feeling Peter at his back. He led him through the staff door near the bar that exited to the tiny backstage corridor and the dressing room there. Inside it, Mike seized the initiative. “Logan…that’s not an attempt to get back at me, right?” It came out as a much cruder accusation than he would ever have wanted to make. He could only hope Peter, who heard underlying notes in any phrase, and even the notes that weren’t played, heard the base need here, something borne of Mike’s insecurities.

Peter tilted his head. He was listening. “For…?”

“For me not telling my family. For Lucy.”

“I’m not petty.”

Mike tried hard not to hear an emphasis on _I’m_. He went to say more, but Peter beat him to it.

“I wondered if you not telling your family was an attempt…not to get back at me but connected to the _LA Live_ show.”

“Peter? I don’t—”

“After what happened.” There was no need to specify the _what_ , and much less to rehash it, the fight and what had led to it. Mike hated that his actions, or non-actions, had caused Peter to commit an action he was ashamed of, something that betrayed his ideals. “That as a result you were rethinking things. Me.”

“Peter.” Mike let his expression and the gentle finger he touched under Peter’s chin, turning his face up to Mike’s, tell Peter just how wide of the mark that was. He drew the finger up to Peter’s lips, and when Peter opened for him and nipped the tip, Mike had to ease it free. He brought his face close enough for Peter to rub noses with him, unable to encompass how much he’d missed both these habits of Peter’s, these gestures that were so simple, yet that filled Mike’s whole heart. He used his shoulder to nudge Peter to face the tall dressing table mirror.

“Shotgun, the only thing we gotta rethink is this beard.” From behind him, Mike reached his hand around to stroke it with his palm. “As in, thinking to get rid of it.” He pressed back when Peter pushed into his hand.

“You seem to like it.”

“Oh no. I fucken _love_ it. Just, it makes you look too damn sexy. Well, you are too damn sexy. This shows it to the world.”

“And you don’t like that.” Peter’s eyes met his in the mirror, Mike’s dark-brown head to one side of Peter’s dark-blond.

“I like it all for me,” Mike husked. He pressed close, wrapping his arms around Peter’s toned midriff, and rutting into Peter’s miracle of an ass. He was pulled closer still when Peter swung both arms behind them and his hands grabbed Mike’s backside.

“And I like this lush tush.” Peter’s gurgle of laughter at their in-joke rippled through them both.

Mike was too hard to be amused for long. He nuzzled into the collar of Peter’s shirt and bit at the spot where neck became shoulder, the spot that had Peter’s lips opening on a gasp and his head falling back.

“Yeah,” Mike whispered, his praise at how responsive Peter was. “I know. You’re needing too.” He untucked Peter’s shirt and snaked a hand up under it to Peter’s chest, and his nipple. He couldn’t take it between his teeth in this position, but he could rub with his thumb. His other hand he snaked down to Peter’s fly. “And I’ll take care of every one of your needs. Give you all you crave. You know that. But I need to get my hands on you first. Then my mouth. Then I’ll fuck your brains out, darlin’.”

“Not if I fuck yours out first.”

Because his darlin’ was no pushover. One—only one—of the reasons Mike loved him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied, his Mike-imitation note perfect. “Actually, I want to fuck the lush ass off you.”

“You been planning?”

“Imagining,” Peter admitted.

“That so? Like what?” Mike encouraged him. “’Cause when I imagined it, it started like this…” He started undoing Peter’s zip, slowly, as slowly as Peter ground his ass into him, their eyes on each other’s reflections the whole time. Mike taking Peter in front of a mirror was something he’d first done last month, and they’d both gotten off on it so much that they done it twice more like that since. They both sighed when Mike’s hand circled Peter’s hard cock. This was—

“Guys? Guys?” came a voice at the door, a second before the handle depressed and it started to open.

Mike could have howled. He thought he actually did.


	11. October, 1966 part three

“Dudes!”

Mike and Peter whipped their hands free, turned, grabbed chairs and spun them around to sit in them the wrong way round with the synchronicity of trained chorus-line dancers in an old Hollywood musical. The chair’s back covered enough of Peter’s crotch that he could do up his pants—with difficulty—although his shirt was still mostly unbuttoned, but Mike doubted Floyd, the owner of the All Hangout would notice or think that odd if he did.

“Major bummer!”

Floyd reminded Mike a little of Hank, Peter’s surfing buddy.

“Oh.” Floyd gave a slow nod. “But you know, right, and you read my mind. That’s righteous of you.” He smiled beatifically.

“Tell us again?” Peter suggested.

After what had happened last month, they’d all felt they needed to keep a lower profile, and this beatnik-turned-hippie place _just_ east of the Strip was a compromise between that and needing to keep their skills honed, their names out there a little, _and_ earn enough to survive.

“That the group’s stuck on the PCH with a flat and I need someone to fill in until they can get here.” Floyd indicated the guitars. “Thanks!”

“But—”

“We—”

“Were—”

“Just—”

Not anymore they weren’t. They found themselves on stage instead, seated on tall stools, both holding electric guitars and concealing major boners, and both raw and hurting with the frustration that they could only take out on instruments of a different nature. And with no chance to play with each other, they played _off_ each other.

Dual guitars became a guitar duel, with them soon moving from mirroring each other, trading licks and phrases with their intuitive link creating interlocking musical conversation, to them contrasting and competing with each other, increasing the speed and dexterity needed for the complexity of the intricate melodies they slung back and forth. It was a thrust and parry. If Mike spun out into a dominant solo, Peter sniped back with ringing licks, all with the synchronisation that showed their bond.

When, at the crescendo, Mike tore his gaze from Peter and looked out into the audience, he was met with open-mouthed panting and glassy, bug-eyed stares from the charged room. The _changed_ room, really—this was so not the normal bag of the All Hangout. Mike nodded at Peter, who nodded back, and without needing to say a word, they wound down to a sweetly entwined melody that gambolled and meandered to a stop when they saw the group who were scheduled to play arrive. Bowing, the two of them fled the stage.

“What?” Mike looked at Peter, who was sniggering. “I gotta say I don’t find nothing about this amusing.”

“Another name for a guitar battle is cutting heads,” Peter told him, sniggering more.

“Oh. Yeah, that’s kinda funny, in a sick way,” Mike agreed. “And yeah, that’s sorta how mine feels. Cut off at the root.” He shot a sidelong look at Peter. “I think we have more to discuss in a joint counselling session, don’t you? No, not the guitar playing.” He gave Peter no chance to make a quip. “The things we asked each other earlier.”

“Yes.” Peter’s agreement was immediate. In the dressing room, he set down the borrowed guitar. “If we survive another one. That session with Dr. Sisters’ sister was really intense. Oh, I’m not complaining…”

That the things she’d asked them to describe had gotten them so fucken worked up they’d had to find someplace secluded so they could fuck, fierce and hard, low-down and dirty, in the car afterward, having no chance of making it back to the pad.

“True… Maybe a different therapist?” Mike suggested. “And not Micky again either, even if he has got a white coat with its pockets full of pills. _Especially_ if.”

They were back in the club by then and Micky, as if he’d heard his name, shot to his feet and watched them approach.

“What. Was. That?” He pointed at the stage, saucer-eyed.

“I said not to ask.” Davy thumped him.

“Amanda, are you _drinking_?” Mike slid the 16oz beer glass from between her fingers and took a sniff. Yep—and not beer but hooch. “But, ’Manda—”

“Concepción,” she replied, pointing her thumb at her chest. “That’s why I’m drinking.”

“ _What?_ ” squealed Micky, his feet slamming to the floor and his entire body twisting in the direction of the door.

“Concepción,” Amanda lisped. “Maria Concepción González Domingo. My nom de booze.” She fished out a small plastic card with a more-or-less photograph of her on it. “I’ve been in East LA buying fake ID today.”

“For…a story or a feature?” Mike asked.

“Yeeeessss? Well, possibly?” Amanda took a huge slurp, draining her glass. “Told you it’s been a bitch of a day.”

“Well, we’ll soon have you home safe and sound, won’t we, Toby? Toby?” Mike repeated, forgetting. “ _Tell you later,_ ” he whispered to Peter out of the side of his mouth, not intending to, and glaring at Micky.

Between Amanda wanting to drink, Lucy wanting to dance, Davy coming on to some and hiding from other chicks, Belle trying to understand what was wrong with Toby— _good luck there_ , Mike thought—and Micky alternately making moo-cow eyes at and hiding from Amanda, it was a good while before everyone was home and nicely and quietly in bed. Micky, in particular, had taken ages to come up and settle down.

“Peter,” Mike whispered in the darkness. “You still awake?”

“Hard to sleep with a hard on,” Peter whispered back. “Hard to sleep when you’re horny as hell. Hard to drop off when you need to get off—”

“Don’t say horny and stop saying hard!” Mike hissed. The rhythm and cadence struck him. “Have you been lying there, mentally composing that poem about your _boner_?”

There was a silence. “If I say yes, would you think me weird?” Peter finally said.

“Babe, no! No, babe, I’d think you perfect. Oh, wait, I do! ’Cause you are. And you’re no weirder than me, remember?” Mike stroked down his face. “C’mon, let’s blow this popsicle stand. Oh God. Why’d I say blow?”

“Go out of the pad?” Peter asked.

“Yeah. I’m…concupiscent. Carnal. Libidinous—”

“And been at the synonyms dictionary again.”

“Don’t say dick!” Mike begged. “But yeah.”

“You _know_ how that turns me on, Michael.” Peter squirmed. “Do some more.”

“I’m…lascivious. Lecherous. Lubricious…”

Peter propped himself up on one arm, his eyes narrowed. “Who came in when you got to the Ls, so you couldn’t go any further?”

“Lucy.”

Peter smacked his own forehead at that. “Duh.”

“So we gotta get outta here!” Mike urged. “Because I think Micky’s keeping himself awake just to see if we start gettin’…amorous.”

In the pause they left after that, an insultingly obvious fake snore came from the camp bed. It turned into a muffled “ow” when the pillow Mike threw hit its target.

“So we’re really sneaking out?” Peter whispered, following Mike down the stairs. “Like lustful, licentious libertines.”

Mike spun around and grabbed Peter to lay a kiss on him at that, “Fucken love you,” he breathed against his lips. “C’mon.”

Peter laughed, clapping his hand over his mouth to muffle it, and followed Mike down the helical staircase, banging into his back, hard, when Mike halted suddenly and bit back a squeak. He pointed at the figure waiting at the bottom, its hand raised in a _stop_ gesture.

“Who the hell—” Mike started to demand, only to break off, feeling foolish. “ _Mr. Schneider!_ ”

“Abstinence is next to godliness,” declared the dummy, even though no one had pulled its string, its mechanical voice more priggish than usual and its big swimming-pool-blue eyes more googly.

“Yeah, in Micky’s dictionary,” Mike muttered in reply, giving the marionette a shove out of the way. He took a couple of steps toward the No-Room when he yelped and skidded, crashing to the floor. With a “Goddamn marbles!” he staggered to his feet. “I twisted my knee.”

“I’ll rub it better,” Peter pledged.

Still in nightwear, shoeless, they’d almost made it to the wardrobe when Mike squealed and clutched one foot, hopping on the other. “Fucking tin tacks! It’s in my toe!”

“I’ll kiss it better,” Peter assured him.

One hand finally on the knob of the No-Room door, Mike suddenly slipped, his legs veering out from under him and depositing him on the floor with a thump. “ _Oil?_ ” he shouted. “I slipped on _oil_? Right on my ass?”

“Oh my God—I’ll _fuck_ it better,” Peter shouted back. He stepped over him and pulled him by his arms into the wardrobe. “Where’re we going, anyway?”

“The make-out rocks. Where else?” Mike recovered quickly. Giggling, shushing each other, they threw on coats, snatched up blankets, and raced along the beach. Mike tried not to feel that his dick was leading the way, like a donkey chasing a carrot. He wasn’t an ass.

“And it’s more of a stick than a carrot,” Peter added.

“Thanks, I guess, babe.” Mike looped an arm around him and pulled him in for a sideways hug and lopsided kiss. The series of hollows and small almost-caves loomed and they slowed. “It’s fall and it’s late. There shouldn’t be anyone here—”

The rocks were occupied. _Every goddamn one._ Motioning Peter to crouch behind them, Mike peered into each and extra hard into the last one, making the guy there half-turn.

“Buzz off, creep,” he ordered.

“Say, buddy…” Mike tried a smile. “Will you be long there, now?”

“ _What?_ ” cried the guy.

“Oh, not with your chick! I wasn’t asking if I could—”

“You damn well better not be, punk,” the man snapped.

“Mike?” came a female voice from either behind or under the guy. Mike couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to check. “Is that you?”

“Sh-Shelley?” Mrs. Purdey’s daughter? Here at the make-out rocks? “You don’t even live around here!” Mike said, stupidly. “And Richard? Your _husband_?” The last man he’d expect to find Shelley with. She was profligate. Promiscuous. Brazen. Barefaced.

“We’re reliving our courting days!” she called. “Rediscovering the spark between and making it flame anew.”

That sounded…familiar.

“We’re trying counselling, with a new lady therapist who specializes in couples. She’s—”

“Dr. Lorene Sisters’ sister, Lara?” Mike closed his eyes.

“Yeah!” Shelley giggled, but not because of the topic of conversation. And Mike doubted Richard was telling her a joke.

With a, “Right, I’ll just…” He backed away. It wasn’t more than a few minutes before the couple emerged.

“All done. All yours. I’d make it quick if I were you.” Richard winked.

“Oh, I will. And thanks!” Mike shot around the side of the rocks and whistled to Peter, beckoning him to join him.

“Michael—”

“Tell me after.” Mike shushed him and pushed him into the back of the hollow.

“But—”

“Yeah. Love your butt.” Mike proved it by sinking to his knees in front of him, taking Peter’s PJ pants with him. He fondled Peter’s cheeks then, when that wasn’t enough, span him around to sink his teeth into one firm globe, blessing the fact that Peter was a stranger to underwear. Mike knocked his forehead into Peter’s lower back, to make him bend over the small rock at the back of this half-cave, reason he’d chosen this one.

Nudging Peter’s legs apart with his shoulders, Mike ran the forefinger of one hand down Peter’s cleft, stopping at his hole, and drew the other up the inside of Peter’s warm thighs, stopping at his balls. He circled one and cradled the other, taking the weight of Peter’s sac in his palm. Damn. He’d have to leave go with one hand to rummage for the lube, and he couldn’t bear to cease contact with Peter’s taut, toned body.

“Michael, the time. The tide—”

“Wait for no man. Yeah, I know. It’s just such a hard decision, babe.” Mike bit Peter’s ass again, on the other cheek this time, and not so gently this time, to see if that helped him make up his mind. It didn’t, but it did make Peter whimper. “Love that sound, sugar,” Mike husked. “Gonna make you holler before I’m through-ooooh! The hell?” He was _wet_ through, and not in a good way. Cold water sloshed over him to his ass, then another wave to his waist. “The fuck?”

“The tide.” Peter hopped nimbly onto the small rock, righting his pants as he did so. “I was trying to tell you.”

Still kneeling, Mike was hit by a third wave, to his chest this time. Spluttering on cold salt water, he struggled to his feet. “Next time…” He paused to spit out seaweed. “Next time, try harder, huh? It’s not as if you had your mouth full or nothing.” _Or are likely to, and for the foreseeable future, way things are going._ At least the cold water took care of his hard on.

“Here.” Peter helped wrap Mike in a blanket and patted him dry. Mike’s boner sprang to life again, and he glared from it to Peter. “Sorry. I won’t make a magic fingers joke, I promise.” Peter held his hands up, away from Mike. “Let’s go back?”

Aching from his erection, wet from sea water, limping from his injuries and tired from a long day, Mike followed Peter along the sand home, where they headed for their chaste bed. Inside the room, Mike threw the pillow he’d brought especially from downstairs at Micky. Just because. A giggle, not disguised quickly enough as a snore, came from his bed.

“Tomorrow’s gotta be better,” Mike said, and sneezed.

***

It was busier, Peter discovered, and right from breakfast on.

“I _said_ I’m sorry, and like I explained, I was practicing for the trick part of trick or treat!” Micky repeated, gesturing at the booby-trapped den. A snigger escaped him, and Mike glowered.

“I don’t care if you do find the word ‘booby’ amusing, boy—you’re dismantling every last one of your traps, and right now!” He held Micky’s cereal bowl out of reach. “You’ll get this when you’re done and not before. You and your damn fool antics.”

“And we’re not having a Halloween party here,” Peter reminded him. Again.

“And no, you can’t swap your birthday to October Thirty-First—that ain’t how it works!” Mike was adamant. Supervising Micky’s scrubbing of the floor, he half-turned to Peter. “Sure you’re okay taking Lucy out and about today?”

Peter nodded. He whistled to Micky, who sat up on his haunches, his arms bent like paws, and stretched his head up for the red Froot Loop Peter filched from the bowl and threw up into the air for him. “Yeah. And she really wants to learn how to surf? Well, if I taught you, I should be able to teach anyone!”

“Ha-ha.” Mike ran a finger down Peter’s nose. He did love doing that…and Peter loved him doing that. They were in company, so Mike wouldn’t continue down Peter’s philtrum to his lips. Wouldn’t rub along the bottom one for Peter to catch his finger. Catch it and trap it and nip it and suck it and—

“Yeah, said I’d help Nyles,” Mike eyed him as if he divined his thoughts. He probably did. “Redecorating or moving in some furniture or something and it has to be today. It could be for some actual reason or just because he got the idea. You know how he gets.”

Peter nodded. He crossed to the phone to call Toby. He wanted to sort things out with her. He was a peacemaker by nature, and it seemed he’d upset her to the point she wasn’t speaking to him. Huh. Her phone must be broken—he could hear her saying hello and asking who was there, but seemed she couldn’t hear him.

“Oh, and I think Lucy had another thing on her vacation list for today?” Mike called as he was leaving. Peter nodded again.

She didn’t have another thing on her vacation list for today. She had a whole list just _for_ today, all Hollywood themed, yesterday not being enough of a fix for her. After surfing, at which she was as bad as Mike had initially been, it was an open-top bus tour—for all it was late fall—of celebrity homes in Hollywood and Beverly Hills. Oh, with a stop off to see the Hollywood sign. And a detour for a cruise down Rodeo Drive. Then all the way to Hollywood Memorial Park, which was a celebrity cemetery, before touring a movie studio backlot ranch and being taken to the actual movie studio, where after looking around, they were invited to be a test audience for the screening of a pilot TV show.

“ _The PussyKatz_?” Davy cast a skeptical eye at the cacographic spelling of the show’s title. “A show about a struggling all-girl rock group who all live together in a beach house in Malibu and get into scrapes? That premise seems a bit unbelievable to me. How d’they afford a beach house in Malibu, for one thing?”

“Or that car and those band uniforms?” Peter pointed at the pictures on the first page of the booklet.

“Ooh…” Davy gazed at the skin-tight leopard-print bikinis—what there was of them. “You know, they just might have something there. A couple of things, actually… Micky, what d’you think? Micky? Where is he?”

“There.” Lucy indicated Micky, who’d eschewed a chair and was sitting cross-legged on the floor right up against the still-black screen. His glasses were firmly on his face for once and a big tub of popcorn was in his hands.

“’Course. Chicks jumping around in teeny-tiny animal-print swimwear? They’ll have to set the place on fire to get him out of here.” Davy shook his head. “He’s so close his face’s pressed to the screen—reckon that’s how he got that squashed nose of his?”

Assuming a casual air, he wandered over…and plumped down next to Micky. “Mike’s a fan of customized cars—would he be interested in their PussyWagon?” he asked Peter.

“Man, I wouldn’t say no to a ride in their p—”

“Please take a seat?” Peter said loudly to Lucy, drowning Micky out. He hoped. Maybe the show wouldn’t be as bad as he was imagining.

It wasn’t. It was much worse.

“Boy, was that _primo_!” sighed Micky afterward, replacing the 1-5 rating on the score sheet with a purr-grrr one, and circling grrr for each cat, sorry, _kat_ -egory. “What was my favorite scene? Hmm, toss-up between the volleyball game against their rivals the Kay-Nines in their little French poodle outfits and that hula-hoop contest in _glorious_ slo-mo. No, it was the trampolining romp to their song that was the finale.”

“Toss… _up_?” inquired Davy, with a glance down at Micky’s…swing-o-meter.

“It wasn’t _that_ good. The musicianship was a little suspect,” Peter threw in. “I really don’t think they were playing those instruments at all, just miming.”

“Kinda missing the point there, Petey.” Micky crammed the last of his popcorn in his mouth.

“You sure didn’t. You bloody caught all eight of ’em,” came Davy’s last word. “Ah, hope springs eternal—he’s written his name, address and phone number on his paper! Jesus, he’s only gone and drawn a map, and added the bus numbers, to Beechwood, and…what’s that long, skinny-looking shaft thing you’ve drawn? Micky, for f—” Davy was almost hysterical now. “At least it’s to scale, if not a bit too flattering!” he wheezed.

“Davy! Ladies present!” Peter tried to intervene. “I think it’s an arrow. Like, indicating the house?” _Please, God._

“Wouldn’t an arrow have a pointed tip?” Lucy peered. “This is rounded at the end. Ends. Look, there’s two of them.”

“That’s not whatyou’re s’pposed to have two of!” came from Davy, collapsed on the floor.

“Sure it is. They’re drumsticks, to tell them I play the drums?” Micky looked from the paper to the three of them. “What…were you all thinking?”

“And what’s that timetable you’ve put with it?” Davy squinted down.

“I’ve drawn up a possible schedule for the PussyKatz, so they all get a turn with me, while avoiding any overlap.” Micky handed in his ballot. “I’m thoughtful like that.”

With a, “Yeah, and we know _exactly_ what you’re thinking,” Davy pushed him out of the screening room.

“I should apologize for them, but I wouldn’t know where to start,” Peter admitted. At least the day’s activities, Micky-and-Davy-minding included, would have worn Lucy out, he supposed, driving them in the MonkeeMobile home. She’d want an early night and he and Mike could— Her scream as they drove along Melrose nearly deafened him, and her grab for the steering wheel almost made them crash.

“ _Look!_ ” she breathed, staring at a poster.

Peter let his head fall forward until it hit the wheel and honked the horn. Lucy reached over and honked it too, perhaps thinking it was how people signaled defeat, in LA. And in this case, it was.

***

“Tell me why we’re here?” Mike, whom Peter had called at Nyles’ to tell him of the plan, gazed around at the huge high school campus. “And I don’t mean on Melrose and Fairfax in general, but Fairfax High School in particular?”

“Did Micky go here?” Belle, who’d driven in with Toby and Amanda as the chicks were hanging out with them again, asked.

“Oh, is this some sort of reunion?” Amanda looked interested. Looked _calculating…_

“It’s a Halloween Fair.” Peter indicated the funfair on the playing field. “Lucy wanted to come. And look.” He stepped out of the way of the poster so Mike could see the stars who were guests of honor this evening.

“God dang it, cousin!” Mike stamped a foot. “I thought you’d gotten over your craze for those cruddy beach party movies!”

“They ain’t cruddy and never, cousin!” Lucy stamped her foot too. “And now I got the chance to actually meet the Beach Party Boys and Babes? Of course I’m taking it! And you know, you four could easily be in one of those movies! I can just _see_ you with Frankie Catalina and Annette Cellifunco. Why, Davy, you could even dance with Annette! Come on—what are we waiting for?”

“Hell to freeze over?” Mike started to say, then blinked at Lucy’s speed-of-light disappearance into the fairground, then scowled as he had no choice but to follow in her slipstream.

“Who are those two?” Toby asked Davy, pointing at Peter and Mike as they headed into the crowds amid the lights and music and motion of the whirling fairground rides, the shrieks of the crowd and the aromas of fried and sugary food. “I have the feeling you told me, but I can’t remember.”

“Michael?” Peter queried, on hearing this. “Is something the matter with Toby?”

“Shotgun, how long you got?” Mike muttered. He looked about the booths they were near. “Isn’t this Halloween funfair the same as the Valentine carnival they held here, just given a make-over? Look, that Haunted House, all black and purple, that was the Love Shack, all red and pink, wasn’t it?”

Peter took in some other changes. The confectionary booth’s once-pink cotton candy was now orange, just as the heart-shaped pink cookies were now white and in the form of bones, and the fruit punch stall, formerly selling a bright pink Love Potion was now dispensing cloudy green Hex Juice. He caught sight of the Journey into Fear boat ride and nudged Mike. “Do you remember when you went down the Tunnel of Love?”

“ _Peter!_ ” Micky elbowed him in warning and jerked his head to Lucy. “She doesn’t know, remember?” He paused. “But you can tell me about it after, if you like?”

“Cousin, there’s a Kissing Booth!” Lucy called, pointing. “Do you remember how you used to—”

“No, and neither do you,” Mike told her, glaring in warning. “Oh, lookee here, a rifle shooting game…”

 _Also known as bait. Or a distraction_ , Peter thought, seeing Lucy zoom to it like iron filings to a magnet. Pity. He’d long wanted to hear that story, know how Michael had gotten so good at kissing. Lucy was good with a spring-powered air rifle.

“You’re not going to let a lady beat you, are you?” asked Amanda, her face and tone set to ‘coy’.

Thanks to their joint counselling session, Peter understood why her words were making Mike blush: he did in fact quite like a lady…if not _beating_ him, then dominating him, from time to time. Peter just hoped the image Amanda’s words conjured up didn’t trigger the craving for…a time. Well, unless _he_ was taking part. No, seemed Mike was sublimating the urges riding him into shooting a gun. _Very original._

Soon the cousins were about neck and neck in terms of targets hit and tokens won. Lucy cashed hers in as she went, choosing toys and dolls from the prizes hanging on the stall. “Are these all for me?” Davy, nominally her date, asked, a worried look on his face.

“Oh, I guess you can have one?” Lucy replied. “I was planning to take them to the orphanage tomorrow.”

“There’s an _orphanage_?” Micky asked.

“Yeah. We tried to hand you in there a few times, but they got a strict ‘no returns, no refunds’ policy,” Davy muttered.

Peter thought he knew what was coming when Mike, who’d let his winner tokens mount up, flickered a half-glance at Peter and traded them all in for one big prize: a huge stuffed lion, the match for the plush tiger he’d gotten Peter a couple of months back…when they’d plighted their troth. Peter wondered what Mike was going to propose _this_ evening.

“Oh my!” Lucy stroked the lion’s furry mane. “And I think I know who this is for!” She did the ‘coy’ look too, unlike Mike, whose face looked like a stopped clock—or a smacked arse, as Davy put it—and glanced from Mike…to Amanda. “Because I heard from a little bird…”

“Let me guess. A little London sparrow,” Mike guessed, between gritted teeth.

With a sly, “Tweet tweet?” Amanda raised a glass of what Peter didn’t think was Hex Juice. At least, he hadn’t seen any flute glasses full of sparkling drink at the refreshment kiosk. Looking agonized, Mike presented Amanda with the cuddly lion. His only consolation was that Mike received her drink in exchange, and Peter slid it from his fingers and drained it. Definitely not fruit punch.

Handing the prizes to Davy and Micky to carry, Lucy went off to see about how to get autographs or photos or something and the rest of them turned to see what funfair rides the place had. Mike gave Peter a discreet nudge.

“Babe, let’s slip away while we can, like eels in the night?”

“Back to the ocean?”

“Huh?”

“When eels are mature, no longer elvers, they migrate back to the ocean to mate,” Peter explained.

Mike scowled. “I done had my fill of ocean water while I was trying to mate _last_ night. Let’s stay on dry land. Here!” He dragged Peter to the entrance to the ride next to the octopus-like Scrambler the others were debating trying.

“A dark ride.” Peter glanced up at the gruesome façade, taking in the red letters dripping down like blood against the black. Davy called these attractions ghost trains. ‘“Abandon hope all ye who enter here’? Michael, I’m not sure about this…”

“Oh, come on!” Mike, cash handed over to the attendant, was already in the front seat of the lone car near the door marked _ENTRANCE – if you dare…_ This carriage was empty except for him, and most of the cars were on the other side of the front, near the exit. “Peter!” he called, as an eldritch cackle grated out and the doors started to open.

Shrugging, Peter jumped into the row behind Mike in the four-seater car and had barely sat before the carriage lurched forward, the doors jerked inwards, and they were off…


	12. October, 1966 part four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is never-ending!

Trying to shrug off the heavy vibes settling on his shoulders, Peter stood to slip into the front of the carriage with Mike…just as Mike stood, preparing to vault into the back with him, meaning they bashed their heads together with a loud _crack_.

“Ow, my eye!” Mike clapped a hand to his right eye and sank back down.

“My lip!” Peter dabbed a finger to his split lip, sitting heavily again. The car veered right, into the heart of the ride.

“Why were you coming in the front? I was coming in the back,” Mike groused. “The back’s more romantic!”

“ _Romantic…_ ” Peter looked up at a skeleton, rattling where it was chained to the wall. Their heads clashing together had made just as much if not more noise and his bones felt more shaken by this jolting ride. He moved down for Mike to join him and they were both thrown forward then back as the ride juddered.

“This heap of junk needs even more maintenance now than it did in the spring,” Mike complained. “I’m surprised it’s still running.”

“Michael!” Peter wailed. “Don’t—”

Amidst a blood-curdling scream, the car shuddered to a crunching, jerky, screeching halt.

“—jinx it,” Peter finished on a mutter.

“Dang it!” Mike hit the safety bar in front of him. “I was just getting amorous.”

“Really? Because I sure wasn’t,” Peter replied, batting away a gray trail of cobweb, thicker and longer than any in Beechwood, even those that sprouted when Davy had been in charge of dusting. Just then, the lights went out, leaving them in the dark.

“Oh, not even now?” Mike wheedled.

Before Peter could reply—in the negative—the electricity came back on and the attraction started up…all except for their car. That didn’t move an inch along the track. Peter’s heart sank. “I guess we’d better get out, or the next car along will smack into us.”

Mike shook his head. “I think the electricity’s failed on the track, look.”

Peter instead found himself looking, and wishing he wasn’t, at an upright coffin that jutted out a crazy angle from the corner. “So we just wait a minute and jump in the next one?” He sighed at the non-look on Mike’s face and remembered the number of cars that had been idled outside the ride. “We’re the only ones in here, aren’t we.”

The coffin lid sprang off and a human-size bat sprang out, its oversized wings rubbery and cold as they trailed over hum, and its high-pitched squeaking sounding like laughter.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Peter could read bat-signals. “That we’re trapped in a ghost train ride.”

“Without the train.” Mike took his hand, making Peter jump.

“Don’t _do_ that!” he cried. “Give me some warning first.” A second later, a broomstick-riding witch, all cackling shriek, long green hair and glowing red eyes, shot across the path in front of them…and Peter jumped into Mike’s arms.

Mike staggered under Peter’s weight. “How about giving _me_ some warning?” he carped, setting him down. “And you’re not usually spooked by all this kinda stuff. That’s more Micky’s hang-up. He rubbing off on you?”

“No, but not for lack of trying,” Peter muttered, thinking of Micky’s offer to share the bed while Mike was away…and to share it now Mike was back.

“Huh?”

“Maybe I’m missing the other two, so I’m taking on their characteristics.” Peter mimed Micky’s fear of the paranormal and the way Davy jumped into people’s arms, to make his meaning clear.

Mike chuckled. “As long as it’s not some bad wizard body-swap hoo-doo, we’re good.”

“Or maybe I just wanted to be in your arms,” Peter confessed. “That’s about as close as we’ve been since you got back!”

Mike gave him that crooked grin Peter couldn’t resist. Maybe his idea about coming in here to have some alone hadn’t been _that_ stup—

Mocking laughter rang around the space, high-pitched and hysterical, ending in the sound of something heavy and metallic falling, then a wet-sounding gurgle.

“Let’s just go back the way we came?” Peter swallowed. He fought not to squeal and run when smoke billowed up from a sudden hole in the ground in front of them. The smoked cleared and red and orange flames flickered up from the gaping chasm.

“It’s okay, shotgun.” Mike looped a slow arm around Peter’s waist. “They can’t be real, or the sprinklers would go off.”

The hiss whispering malevolently all around was the only warning before water pitter-pattered down on them. _Cold_ water.

“Great. Just great.” Peter pulled him along, disorientated by the strobe lights, black lights, and spotlights that lit up spooky antiques, or gory images or tableaux before they clicked off again. Had the figures in that painting moved? And that rocky wall, like the side of a cave—were those small red dots hundreds of red eyes from creatures lying in wait there? Creatures…or _demons_? “We didn’t come in this way,” he whispered.

“We’ll come somewhere if we just follow the tracks. That way we won’t get lost.” Mike pointed downward.

“And now?” Peter asked grimly, a minute later when they reached a junction. He shook his hair back. It was still wet. Just as he thought that, gusts of air blasted them from both sides, quickly becoming a gale, or series of gales propelling them along from blast to blast like ping pong balls on jets of water.

“Look!” Mike called.

Peter…would rather not. “Oh, the exit!” The most beautiful four-letter word in the English language. “Come on!”

He didn’t know if it was a pressure pad they walked on or a wire they tripped, but _something_ released a host of billowy, floating, transparent grayish figures that shook and shivered in front of them, or, more precisely, between them and the door. “They’re just a projection, or a refraction of lenses and images,” he muttered, walking with determination into the bobbing, hovering, non-corporeal beings.

Just like that dank of the grave smell they brought with them was the result of a scent diffuser. Or his imagination. Clutching Mike’s hand tightly, Peter encouraged him to speed up. He was hyperventilating, and dealing with a bad trip flashback, fighting the damp, slimy feel of the tendrils trying to wrap around him, trying to keep him prisoner, trying to make him join them, become one of them, and—

“Arrrggghh!” Yes, he was screaming, holding his hand over his mouth to muffle it as he and Mike threw themselves at the double doors to burst them open. He tried to disguise it into an, “Owww!” and rubbed his shoulder as they tumbled out into the raucous fairground evening. And didn’t do a good job of it, if the way Mike was looking at him was any clue.

“You…” Mike trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“Preferred the Tunnel of Love, yes,” Peter answered, trying to brush down his filthy, cobwebby clothes and shake out his wet hair at the same time he banished the remnants of the trip.

“At least this is an excuse to go home,” Mike muttered, indicating the rest of the group, advancing on them.

“Cousin…” Lucy slowed, looking from Mike to him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“A fraid of them,” Peter replied.

“You’re afraid of them?” Micky asked. “Me too!”

“A ‘fraid’ as in the collective noun for ghosts,” Peter clarified. “Ghosts, plural? More than one?”

“Oh no.” Amanda stepped forward. “You’re quite wrong. The collective noun for ghosts is a phantasmagoria, or sometimes a haunt.” She sucked up some of her new drink through the straw with a loud slurp, as if punctuating her pronouncement.

Belle jumped forward with a Kleenex and pressed it to Peter’s lip for him, and Lucy brushed Mike down with a hard hand, and blew dust from his hair. “Well, I hope we don’t lose showmanship points for appearance. We’ll have to make up for them by going for extra in the difficulty subcategory.” She bore them along to the big bandstand marquee in the middle of the fairground.

“Yeah, we— What? What are you talking— _No._ ” Mike had only flicked the briefest of glances down at the flyer she handed him before he was trying to give it back. “No. No way, no. Lucy, I am putting my foot down here. I am drawing a line in the sand. I am out _right_ re _fus_ ing—”

“ _Oh._ ” Peter finished studying the leaflet. “So earlier, Lucy, when you said something about Davy possibly dancing with Annette, you—”

“—meant it as in the winners of the dance contest get to dance with the stars!” Micky looked up from the information and the pictures of Frankie and Annette grinning toothily to peer inside the round white pavilion-type tent for them.

“And Davy _is_ a good dancer.” Mike’s voice had that clutching-at-straws note to it, just as his face wore a similar expression.

“Cousin, it has to be you, because of the…” Lucy moved her hand from the top of her head down a foot, shooting a sidelong glance at Davy. She was polite. And tall, for a girl, Peter realized.

“Micky!” Mike’s eyes held a desperate look as he pushed their drummer forward. “He’s tall enough for you.”

Lucy thinned her lips. “That’s as maybe, but I’m sure there’s no way he can do the Lindy Hop—”

“No way at all,” Micky agreed, rubbing his chin as though it itched.

Mike stared. “You forget to shave today, Micky? And yesterday?”

“He’s growing a beard like you two.” Davy darted his gaze from Mike and Peter to Micky. “Well, not _quite_ like you two, ’cause his is coming in with straggly patches, like he’s shaved while half-asleep or half-cut, and he has to color in the bald bits. Yeah, he has to keep touching it up. Which is ironic really…”

“Oh, here it comes.” Mike mimed ducking to avoid the zinger.

“…when he grew it thinking it’d make the birds wanna touch _him_ up!” Davy finished.

Belle offered Micky a Kleenex, indicating where he’d smudged his ‘beard’ in scratching it.

“There’s no way he can do the Lindy Hop,” Lucy repeated, after a pause, “as well as _you_ , Mike, with you being a runner-up medal winner—”

“Peter can do it!” Mike pushed him forward, cutting Lucy off.

Lucy patted Peter’s arm. “No disrespect to Peter, but for sure he can’t shag as well as you can.”

“Well…” Micky, shrugging, made a weighing gesture with both hands.

“With you being a finalist, Cousin Mike,” Lucky finished, shoving them all inside the tent.

“Medal?” Belle questioned.

“Finalist?” Amanda queried.

“Dallas County Swing Dance Championships three years in a row!” Lucy declared.

“Someone’s from Dallas?” Toby asked.

“Wait…” Davy spoke into the open-mouthed silence Lucy’s words had caused. His face one massive grin, he inhaled and said all in one breath, “Mike, you’re gonna shag with your cousin?”

“Punch me in the face, someone,” Mike pleaded. “Just give me enough of a bloody nose that I gotta go to the medical tent and—”

Peter bristled. “Is that a jab at me?”

“No, he wants us to take a jab at him!” Davy whooped with laughter.

Looking agonized, Mike was swept past the checking-in desk and past the bandstand—

“Sven Helstrom and the Swedish _Swing_ Kings?” Micky pointed. “Say, weren’t you guys the Swedish _Rhythm_ Kings?”

“We re-branded to get a younger audience,” Swen explained, in his singsong accent, his tuxedo of yore now a…zoot suit. Using his clarinet as a baton, he counted his drummer, accordion player and violinist in to start a swinging jitterbug number and six pairs of eyes bugged and six mouths dropped open at Mike and Lucy within seconds _owning_ the dance floor with their lifts, spins and flips.

“And this is only a basic shag. Oh, right, they switched to a long double-shag.” Davy swallowed, his eyes on the pair. “You know, I always figured Mike had a checkered past, but this is like, houndstooth tartan!”

“I kinda thought illegal street drag racing or selling moonshine,” Micky admitted. “Not winning prizes for his modern jive!”

“Mike sure is fast on his feet,” Davy commented. “And with his hands.” He glanced at Peter. “Well, you’d know about _that_ , eh?”

Peter refused to be drawn into any double or even single entendre.

“And Lucy’s really _bendy_!” Micky added.

“At least this bit’s a little slower,” Peter said as the pair Charleston-strolled up and down the dancefloor to the handclaps of the spectators, Mike avoiding eye contact with them like the plague.

“Anyone fancy a wager?” Amanda asked. “What marks do we think they’ll get for the Ts? You know, timing, teamwork and technique?”

“High ones, I hope,” Belle replied. “Seeing as they’ll be losing out in the presentation and costumes categories.”

“Yeah, I should think they’ll get points deducted for Mike’s black eye.” Toby looked surprised at her own words.

Theirs cheers, whoops and hollers filled the tent when Mike and Lucy won.

“Well, that’s Lucy’s holiday made,” Peter observed, when Frankie Catalina held his arms open wide to fold her into the winner’s dance with him. “But I don’t think Mike’s—”

“ _He_ isn’t.” Davy combed his hair straight and slid smoothly into Mike’s place, taking his dance with Annette. There was no need to elbow Mike aside to do so—Mike left the floor even more quickly than he’d jitterbugged.

“Don’t.” Mike hung his head as he re-joined the group. “Just…please…don’t.”

They didn’t, even though a few of them were bursting to. They were on their way home in the Monkeemobile before he looked at them again. “What’s it gonna take for none of you to mention this ever again?”

“By _this_ ,” asked Amanda, who Lucy had insisted take her place while she got a ride in Toby’s T-Bird, and who had her arms full of stuffed toys, the huge lion front and center, “you mean you being a champion shagger? A man who’s won medals for his prowess at shagging? That you’re one of the country’s most able sh—”

“Yeah.” Mike, who’d perhaps forgotten that anyone besides Davy would know another meaning of the verb ‘to shag’, glared at her. “That.”

“Oh, I’m writing a list, Mikey.” Micky waved the paper and pen in his hands.

“I’m composing mine mentally.” Davy’s smile was pure evil. “I’ll need more paper than that.”

“I still love you,” Peter told him later, back at the pad, where everyone else, exhausted, was making for the bathroom and their bedrooms but where he and Mike were casing all the instruments on the bandstand—a job which just _had_ to be done then and there. “Honey,” Peter added. He still needed practice at endearments. They didn’t come as easily to him as Mike’s darlin’s, sugars, and babes came to him, although he loved Mike as much as Mike loved him. That he knew.

“ _Sugar._ ” Mike’s were delivered in a sexier drawl, too, one both sweet and smoky. “Not any less?”

“Well…” Peter pretended to think but couldn’t keep up the non-joke. “No. More.” Warmth coursed through him from the hand that Mike gave a quick squeeze to. He reflected on these new details of Mike’s past. “I said it before and I’ll say it again: Texas must be an interesting place.”

He waited for Mike to make him some— _any_ —kind of invitation to see it. To visit it with him. To be with him when he told his family…but none came. Yep, definitely a subject they needed to revisit a second joint counselling session.

“What d’you think?”

It took Peter a second to relate Mike’s question to the lack of noise and movement in the pad. He nodded. “I’d say so. In fact, I _do_ say so: let’s risk it!”

Like last night, they grabbed a blanket and took the side door, but were quieter this time, and by mutual, unspoken decision, didn’t venture far, instead ducking down at the bottom of the sundeck steps to sneak into the small space behind the rocks set there, under the sundeck and its stairs. Mike stifled a curse as he banged his head.

“I told you you had to duck,” Peter said.

“I am ducking, and I wanna know how you know about this!” Mike shot back.

“Davy told me.” Peter’s reply was not exactly a lie.

“Like he’d have to duck,” Mike groused, then swearing, when attempting to lay the blanket out, he banged an elbow.

“Just means we’ll have to cuddle up close.” Peter lay down and, as he’d expected, Mike was on top of him, straddling him, within a second.

With a whispered sultry, “Close, you say?” Mike bent low to claim Peter’s lips. He pulled away instantly when Peter hissed at the pain in the split tissues there…and banged his head on the rocky roof again. His fluent cursing filled the small space.

Fighting not to roll his eyes, Peter pulled him low again, and this time Mike kissed his face, avoiding his lips, and made his way down Peter’s throat, then his neck, tracing the line of his pulse due south. He undid Peter’s shirt buttons, kissing and sucking on each patch of skin he uncovered. And oh God, the sensations his new beard caused…

“More?” Mike asked, wickedly and redundantly, his hands on Peter’s fly button and zipper. He took the whine that came from Peter’s throat as a signal to continue, and a second later, Peter’s erect cock was released, and its tip between Mike’s lips. When Mike ran his tongue around the head, Peter’s accelerated breathing echoed back quickly in the confined space, making it into a chamber.

It was dark, in this pseudo-cave, and not being able to see Mike pleasuring him made the experience different. He had no visual warning before Mike took him down in one long swallow, and the heat and constriction made him cry out. One swirl of Mike’s clever tongue down the length of Peter’s dick had his balls tingling.

“ _Stop,_ ” he gasped. “I’ll come.”

“Kinda what this is about, shotgun,” Mike drawled.

“No, I want you too.” He wriggled and Mike understood and shifted around…to shout out another curse when he banged something.

“God dang it, my other elbow!” he griped.

“Well, at least that’s all of them—no more to go,” Peter reasoned, feeling for Mike, to check they were both in position. He’d just made contact with Mike’s crotch—his nicely erect crotch—when a beam of light pierced the dark of their shelter

“Someone in there?” called the voice of authority, and they both froze. “I heard scuffling.”

The flashlight beam playing in the small space allowed Peter to see Mike’s agonized expression. He figured his own must be its twin.

“I see you!” the voice called. “Identify yourself!”

Only one class of person spoke like that. Mike swallowed. “Er, yes, we live right up there. We’re coming out now…”

First he, then Peter, both zipped up with difficulty, crawled out backward…to finish up at the feet of the beach patrol police officer.

“Good evening, Officer…” Standing carefully, Peter peered at his badge, then thought, _no_.

“Krupke,” the cop confirmed.

“ _Really?_ ” Peter had to ask.

“Yeah, really.” The cop crossed his arms. “And what were you doing in there?”

“Gee, Officer Krupke, I mean, well, Officer…” Peter couldn’t say the name again. Not without clicking his fingers and looking for two rival gangs fighting for turf on the beach.

“We heard a noise, from our beach house just up there, and sure enough, something was crawling under the deck.” Mike took over cleverly.

“And what was it?” the cop demanded.

“A nine-banded armadillo.” No, Mike had taken over _badly_.

“A _what_?” gasped the cop, casting a glance into the cave.

“Sorry. He’s from Texas.” Peter elbowed Mike for mentioning a pest native to that state, but not this one. “He means…erm, a white-tailed deer.”

“A _what_?” the officer repeated, even more incomprehension in his tone.

“Sorry, sir. He’s from Connecticut.” Mike stood on Peter’s foot for _his_ listing of a home-state animal not known here. In the pause that followed, Mike groped desperately for a California animal. Peter knew that, because he was too.

“And what the hell was it?” the cop demanded, bending and shining his flashlight in the space.

“An alligator?” Mike said, at the same time as Peter tried, “A crocodile?”

The cop straightened, slowly, his eyes narrowed.

“Racoon!” they both burst out, in glorious, elated chorus. “A whole bunch of ’em,” Mike added. “Real mean-looking critters.”

“What?” Officer Krupke backed away. “I hate those goddamn filthy, disease-spreading, garbage-ransacking bastards.” He snatched his radio from his belt. “No problem—Animal Control’ll have a unit swarming all over this place in minutes.”

“Oh no, sir.” Mike shook his head. “That’s not—”

“Oh yes it is. We need to check ground floors and basements, sundecks and gardens all along here— 10-91, 10-91V,” he snapped into his crackling transceiver. “Outside 1334 Beechwood Drive…”

Mike and Peter made their way back _inside_ 1334 Beechwood Drive, knowing when to fold ’em, even if Peter had much preferred Mike holding ’em. As earlier, there was no need for words or planning—they trudged on weary feet to bed. Mike held the door open for Peter, then smashed into the back of him when Peter stopped dead, his hand flying to his mouth to hold in the _meep_ he made.

“Peter?” Mike whispered, through the hand he held over his bashed nose. “What…”

Peter pointed to their bed…where the hump of the blanket and a darker shadow it cast…revealed an occupant. He pointed at Davy and Micky, in their beds. So who— Mike was too tired for guessing games and too exhausted for fear. He marched over, yanked back the covers and revealed—

“My lion!” whispered Peter, falling on the stuffed toy Mike had won for him.

“Guess Amanda found a way to get it to its rightful owner.” Mike smiled. He eased the toy from Peter’s arms. “But now ain’t the time to go cuddlin’ him, shotgun. Oh, and definitely not should you be wearing your bunny jammies, not until we got the room to ourselves again. You know what you acting all sweet and innocent like that does to me, don’tcha, babe?”

Peter nodded, helping Mike settle the toy next to the plush tiger.

“What?” came from the foldaway bed near the wall. “What does it do– _ooooof_!”

The final noise was how its LA-native occupant sounded getting hit in the stomach by a basketball thrown by a long-armed Texan, who’d brought it up from downstairs especially.

***

The next day looked like being just as active as the one before. And the one before that. And… Peter started to muse briefly on the pace of life in Beechwood, but there wasn’t time to give it much consideration. Not when it was the usual morning scramble, starting with the bathroom, where Mike and Peter took turns…taking care of themselves, as quickly as they could, mindful of the bathroom rota and the fists likely to be pounding on the door when they overran their allotted time.

At least, Peter presumed Mike did the same as he did. Not that dealing solo with his morning boner bore any comparison whatsoever to sex with Mike, of course. Neither did the phone sex they’d tried while Mike was away, tried very early one morning, with Mike calling him before any of the other residents of the pad were awake.

It wasn’t _just_ their craptastic telephone line, making Peter have to ask Mike to repeat everything, and louder, then louder still, until Mike was shouting himself hoarse yelling descriptions of sexual acts from Texas to California that killed the mood. No, that would be toward the end, when Mrs. Purdey, using her emergencies key, had sneaked in to bring them the dinner leftovers she’d turned into cheesy-stuffed pancakes for a surprise Monkees breakfast…and was the one to get the surprise.

A surprise that made her scream and throw the dish up in the air before fleeing out of the back door, that she wrenched open to do so, tearing the lock from the frame in the process. Davy claimed he’d never be able to so much as look as a _cheesy_ -stuffed rolled-shaped _anything_ ever again. Micky had had no such qualms, though, and no objection to eating floor-dropped burst-open ones, not even when Davy had called him Fido for two days after.

At least he and Mike were both together today, both accompanying Lucy who’d had her fill of Hollywood for now and wanted to see Venice, or go “pier to pier” from Santa Monica’s shaky old one to Venice Beach’s much nicer one, and then along the Ocean Front Walk there.

“Oh, thank the Lord,” Mike muttered when they’d gone up the east side of the Walk, with its souvenir shops and cafes, then come back down the other side, with all its street performers, meaning they had to dodge roller-skate dancers and tarot-card readers and metal-sword jugglers. “Lucy, we’re back where we started. So—”

“Now we see the canals!” She pointed at the long flat-bottomed boats for hire…for the mile-long trip.

“Michael.” Peter pulled him aside. “We could sneak off…”

“Doubt it, babe.” Mike’s expression was pained. “Not when you’re the only one of us who knows how to drive these things.”

“Punt,” Peter said.

“No need for name-calling, there.” Mike scowled.

“No, the boat, the method of propulsion…” Peter gave up. And _stepped_ up, onto the bow of the boat and grabbed the only other pole he’d gotten his hands on that day.

He was exhausted later, from the rowing and the rescuing—grabbing at the waistband of Micky’s pants to stop him falling in, then fishing him out by his waistband when he wasn’t quick enough—and tried not to yawn when they sat down in the outdoor place for their hot dogs, the tradition before Monkees B-Movie Madness Night. Which was another tradition. They seemed to have a lot of them. And be a lot of them, as in people, once the Beechwood Monkee girls joined them. It struck him how perfectly paired they were, or could be, seeing as there four chicks, and the four of them—

“The Passion Pit?” He hadn’t realized they were headed for the Patriot Cinema, the primo make-out spot. He hoped his thoughts hadn’t conjured this into being.

“Yeah, they got a teen-themed horror night,” Micky informed them.

“Horror?” Mike looked from Micky to Peter as they waited near the entrance, to get in. “I don’t know, Mick. Monster movies are one thing, like creature features or big bug movies, but horror? Remember what happened last time at _Jesse James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter_ , that low-budget Western horror film you insisted on seeing?”

“I told you, it was a local rain shower!” Micky yelled, then sneaked a look to see if the chicks in Toby’s T-Bird and Amanda’s Jeep, right next to them, had caught that.

“And at _Billy the Kid Versus Dracula_?” Davy reminded him.

“I told you, a kid had goldfish in a plastic bag from the carnival, and he clutched the bag too tight and it burst, and I tried to help and _that’s_ why I got all wet _there_ ,” Micky hissed. “And what happened after wasn’t my fault—some people are just more prone to lightning strikes than others. That consultant at the hospital said so.”

“What is the double bill?” Peter, ever the peacemaker, asked.

“You mean the ‘trouble’ bill! Well, first it’s _Zombies a Go-Go_!” Micky rubbed his hands together. “Classic teensploitation!”

‘“A group of teenagers start a nightclub in a haunted house not knowing it’s the home of a mad doctor attempting to resurrect the dead and who turns them into zombies,”’ Davy read with a sneer. “Tagline: They came to frug—and had the dance of their undead lives!”

“I know I’m gonna regret this, but what’s it on with?” Mike asked, resigned as they pulled in.

“ _Nightmare on Watusi Beach._ Tagline: it came from beyond the surf,” Amanda read. “Lucy, it’s a beach party flick! Sort of. I never understand these sorts of films. Why don’t the kids just _not_ go to that club or that beach? Or leave when they see something’s happening?”

“Peer pressure.” Micky nodded happily.

“Yeah, like how chicks wanna date guys in bands? ’S’how come _he_ gets dates.” Davy jerked a thumb at Micky and dashed away to the popcorn kiosk before any retribution could be handed—or kicked—out.


	13. October, 1966 part five

“Oh,” Peter said a few minutes later, when they’d stationed inside and he and Mike found themselves partnered up with Amanda and Belle in the Pontiac. “I…”

“Can go in the back with Mike when it’s completely dark.” Amanda patted his hand. “Belle and I can take the front seats. We parked here right at the back on purpose. And I promise not to make any lewd comments about wasn’t the hot dog you swallowed earlier enough for you, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Or…or any suggestive remarks about slurping on…a Slurpee,” Belle added, then blushed.

“ _Belle!_ ” Amanda sounded more delighted than shocked at her weekend-roommate’s comment.

“Anyone else think Belle’s hanging out with Amanda too much lately?” Mike muttered, and Peter raised his hand.

He raised it on Mike’s thigh a few minutes later, and raised it some more after that, then stopped. “Michael,” he said. “At the risk of sounding like a certain female British neighbor of ours, you’re stiff…all over.”

Mike was almost vibrating with the tension running through him. The movie theater was darkened, the only light coming from the huge screen plus the gleams and glimmers of some city lights in the distance, and beyond that, the burnt-pink of the sky, so Peter didn’t see any problem there.

He followed the direction of Mike’s gaze…to the front seat and the backs of the two girls’ heads, and read his expression and half-shrug.

“Babe, I’m _sorry_.” Mike’s whisper was as agonized as his expression. “’S’just I…”

“Think they’re looking at us in the rear-view mirror.” Peter tamped down a sigh. How to handle this? Normally, one caught more bees with honey, but with Mike…it was sometimes necessary to poke the hive. Or that would be the only poking going on. “Pity, when I got all nice for you. Got my most mismatched socks on,” he wheedled, showing blue and an orange-clad feet. “One for each of us. And my belt buckle’s so far to the side it’s practically round the back. In fact…”

“It’s so far out it’s in?” Mike loved that joke and claimed it would make a great song title. “Babe, you gotta know it’s not you, it’s me. I feel like I’m being watched!”

“And not in a good way?” Peter added.

Mike’s, “Huh?” was lost in the, “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Amanda threw over her shoulder. “No one’s paying attention to you. We’re all watching this classic of its genre.”

“I doubt that,” Mike mumbled.

“How about this?” Belle switched the radio on and fiddled about for some romantic music. “They say music’s an aphrodisiac.”

“You know what else is?” Amanda asked, answering herself with, “Chicks getting it on. At least, that’s what all the lads’ mags are filled with pictures of and stories about…and it must be true, if it’s in print. Typical. We women have to save the day—or rather, the night—again, right, Belle?”

“Hu—euuhh!” The noise was Belle having her face grabbed and her lips mashed…to Amanda’s. Within seconds, the confused “ _huh?”_ was a surprised “ _oh!”_ then a long, contented “ _ummmm_ ,” interspersed with the _smack-suck_ sounds and small, happy moans of French kissing. Good French kissing, Deep, soulful French kissing…

“Oh.” Mike swallowed.

“Ummm.” Peter shifted. “How…European.”

“Funny, when the beach party movies are so very American.” Mike cleared his throat.

“D’you think they’re acting?”

Mike shrugged, his gaze pinned to the two chicks still making out.

“If they are, it’s better acting than up there.” Peter raised his head to the giant movie screen.

Mike scoffed. “Wouldn’t be hard.”

“But I bet I know something that is…” It was, Peter discovered, sliding a hand over Mike’s crotch. Very hard. Throbbing, in fact. “Me too,” he whispered, moving so Mike could discover for himself.

Mike’s crooked grin was visible in the darkness. “Oh yeah.” His long fingers insinuated themselves up Peter’s zipper and to his fly button with the ease of practice. “Don’t think I’ll have to get you ready to play with at all— you’re rarin’ to go there, shotgun. Ripe and ready for me to take up where we were so rudely interrupted last night—”

“Mike!”

It wasn’t Peter, admonishing him, trying to tell him not to jinx it—someone had beaten him to it…by interrupting, also known as jinxing it.

“L-Lucy!” Mike yanked his hand free. “Wut in tarnation?”

“I’m sorry…” Lucy did a doubletake at the front seats, then shook her head, obviously thinking she’d been mistaken. She pulled Micky out from behind her. “Poor kid’s scared, and…” She darted her gaze to…below his waist, then hummed part of an old tune Peter recognized as _By a Waterfall_.

 _A winding stream… beneath a ceiling of blue…_ Peter parsed the lyrics.

“Judas Priest, Mick, _again_?” Mike opened the car door. “I thought you were done wetting yourself when you got scared?”

“I _spilled_ my _soda_!” Micky cried, scrambling into the back with them, his tone suggesting it was far from the time he’d made that declaration tonight.

“I didn’t know they sold _that_ flavor.” Peter sniffed. “I’d hate to see it in the cup.”

“I _spilled_ — Wait.” Micky’s head moved slowly from side to side. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “Did someone just _kiss_?”

“If they did, they’re not likely to be doing it again now,” Peter replied, thinking there couldn’t be a greater mood-killer than having a urine-smelling Micky in the car with them.

“Don’t sit on the seat! And you’re detailing this car tomorrow, boy,” Mike informed him.

Micky might have been nodding, assuring Mike he would, but it was hard to tell, with him sitting on newspaper spread on Peter’s lap, his head buried in Mike’s shirt, for the rest of the evening.

When they reached the pad, he yelped, high-pitched and tormented, on catching sight of Mr. Schneider reclining on the couch…the TV on.

“Weird. Did any of you leave…” Mike started to ask them, looking from one to another, but broke off when there were only two instead of three. “Micky? Where’s Micky?”

“Behind you.” Davy pointed.

He was, too, cowering. “I forgot about Mr. Schneider!” he squealed. “Mike, Pete, can I sleep with you tonight?” He was literally on his knees, his palms together in prayer.

“In case the zombies get you?” Davy inquired. “We should be so lucky.”

“No, the surf monster!” Micky replied, his teeth chattering.

“I told you not to keep looking!” Mike scolded. “Micky, we’ll think about it, but go take a shower. _Now._ ”

“And burn those pants,” Davy added. “Oh, not just ’cause of the piss, but because they’re _awful_ , anyway.”

A penultimate, “I _spilled_ my _soda_ ,” came as Micky headed for the bathroom, and a final one before the hiss of the water started.

“Close the damn door!” Mike ordered, averting his gaze from the sight of Micky’s pale skinny body revealed bit by bit as he stripped.

“I need to leave it _opennnn_!” came in a wail.

“Oh, right. For a quick escape if the surf monster comes up the pipes and down the taps,” Davy said, in a voice loud enough to carry into the bathroom.

“David Jones!” Mike scolded. “And you’d better not be planning to leave foam or froth about anywhere, give Mick the heebie-jeebies, ya hear?”

“Last thing I wanna do is give Micky the willies.” Davy rolled his eyes.

Peter took the squeezy bottle of dish soap and put it onto a high shelf. For all Davy’s denials, he wouldn’t put it past the little Brit to waft bubbles into the air every now and then, just for the fun of seeing Micky squeal and try to stuff himself into a cupboard.

“I was wrong,” Peter muttered when they went to bed later. He’d thought there couldn’t be a greater mood-killer than having a urine-smelling Micky in the car with them, but both Mike and Peter discovered that a greater passion-killer was having Micky—whom they were still convinced was urine-smelling—in the bed with them.

With his mind swinging between the memory of the sad, sorry sight—and scent—of Micky and the sexy, sensuous sight—and sound—of Belle and Amanda, Peter was amazed he slept. Self-denial and abstinence were not his bag, any more than frustration and discomfort were. But sleep he did, to wake up grabbing for Mike’s hand and using his pillow to stifle a scream…because a man with a jack-o-lantern for a head was bending over him.

“Happy Halloween!” cried Micky, opening the small hatch-door carved at mouth-level into the hollowed-out pumpkin he had pulled down over his head.

“ _Arrggh!_ ” came from all three of them, staring at Micky’s triangular eyes behind the triangular eye-holes and his snub nose revealed by the small nose hole.

“That good, huh?” Micky, all in black, smiled happily. “And this is just one costume I’m testing out.”

Mike sank back down from where he’d sprang into a sitting position in alarm. “Halloween’s just for kids, Micky. It doesn’t mean anything to adults!”

“Mike! How could you!” Micky looked genuinely shocked, as far as it was possible to tell, with him having a pumpkin over his face. “Aren’t you looking forward to Amanda’s party? You know she’s never seen Halloween before, and she’s gone all out.”

Mike groaned and pulled his pillow over his face. “I’d forgotten it was today.”

“Hey…” Peter lifted a corner of the pillow and snuck under to join him. “This will cheer you up…”

“You are already, just by being here angel,” Mike husked, taking his hand.

Peter ignored the sick noises Davy was making. “Well, cheer you up more, then.” He inched closer to whisper, “I thought of somewhere we can go…for some alone time…”

*** 

“Nyles’? _This_ was your idea?” Mike queried, later, when they’d left Micky painting white bones onto his black clothes with reflective paint and Davy with a clown-white face—his face mask, part of his beauty routine for a party—and made their way down the beach, to halt at their neighbor’s. Lucy had gone to the orphanage, then wanted to see Chinatown and had promised to go help with the party preparations after.

“As good an idea as any, I guess.” Mike peered around, but there was no one in sight. The beach was deserted. “After you.”

Peter took a look around them too, thinking how shifty they must both look, then gazed up at the house. It was set higher than theirs, and seemed alone, somehow, even though there were other beach houses on either side of it. “Detached,” Peter murmured. Good word—the house was freestanding, with no other houses visible from this angle, and its owner was a little…disconnected.

Mike pulled aside a shrub that was growing right across the wooden stairs, so Peter could make his way up. Nyles didn’t do much landscaping, for all he had a cute little patio terrace at the back here. Peter put his foot on the first step and must have brought it down too hard—a shudder went right through him. It happened again, with his other foot on the next step, but yet he didn’t stop, taking the flight of steps one after another, up and onward, with heavy, jerky treads and thumps.

“Peter?” came from Mike behind him, who was holding on to the railing. Well, trying to—his arms were trembling as he fought to pull himself back or even just hold himself still. “I think we should—”

“Not be making our way to the front, like—”

“Zombies?” Mike finished, describing how they were walking as if possessed, their bodies moving of their own volition.

“Uh-huh.” Peter wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have preferred surf monsters.

They forced their way between bushes to the front door…which swung open. Peter was sweating, trying to resist the compulsion to enter, but it was impossible. He just had time to grab Mike’s hand before a rope snaked along the floor toward them and coiled around them, shoving them back-to-back to bind and imprison them.

“Where did that come from?” yelled Mike.

“Seriously?” Peter tried to twist around to him. “ _That’s_ your question about all this?”

“No…” Mike struggled, but was still raised off his feet when the end of the rope whipped up to a hook on the ceiling and looped through it, suspending him and Peter in the air, where they swung to and fro. “Now my question’s how did it do that that!”

“Oh, just a simple spell…to catch intruders,” replied a voice, and a woman stepped away from the wall. And another woman. And another… The room darkened.

“Oh, now see, ma’am, we’re not intruders!” Mike replied, trying to gesture and making him and Peter swing and spin. He groaned. He didn’t do too well with things that rocked and bobbed about, Peter knew.

“You certainly weren’t invited in to join us,” the woman remarked.

“No, but…” Peter made the rope swing more—and Mike moan more—trying to take in the women. _Count_ the women. There were…thirteen. The one who’d spoken, and who now stood, turning her head to watch them swing, was slim, with platinum-blonde hair and a patrician accent. Peter took a guess… “Mrs. Brown?”

“ _Nyles’ mom?_ ” Mike gaped. “Say, do you remember us, ma’am?”

It had only been last month, when they’d come to consult her about…a curse-related matter, but if she was anything like her son, she…might not remember. Plus, she’d been behind a curtain so probably hadn’t seen them. Peter strained, but couldn’t catch the low whispers among a few of the women on either side of Nyles’ mom, who was now sitting on a throne-like chair, along the top of which a dark shape that could have been a cat stretched.

“Do you think they’re all witches?” Mike whispered to Peter. “Like, a party? Oh, is this why Nyles was tidying and painting? I helped him, ladies! Helped him get the place nice for your, erm…”

“Coven.” Peter wished he didn’t know the collective noun for witches. Wished it wasn’t Halloween. The rope swung like a pendulum, in a regular rhythm. _Lento._ “Mrs. Brown, Mike gets motion sickness.” And he was too proud to mention it.

“You should have thought about that before you came here to our refuge with such fixed intentions.” She felt the air as if feeling their ‘intentions’.

“Refuge?” Mike queried.

“Yes. My son was kind enough to offer up his abode as a place we could shelter. Witches suffer greatly on this date.”

“What, physically? Like, people attack you?” Peter was astounded.

“No, our sensibilities are wounded because it’s all so _tacky_.” She shuddered, and her acolytes made _bleh_ and sick noises.

“Well, we didn’t come here to…do anything,” Mike tried, his attempt at a shrug threatening to up the tempo of their swinging to _largo_.

She scoffed. “Don’t deny that you both entered here thick with purpose!”

Purpose…was a good a name for it as any, Peter supposed. He certainly wasn’t thick now. Amazing what fright could do to the body.

The woman stood and beckoned to a younger one. “Sister. Scry for us,” she ordered. “Divine their intent.”

 _Don’t think that we came here to screw_ , Peter thought, feeling a tickling sensation in his mind.

 _To fuck_ , Mike added.

 _Don’t think that!_ Peter begged.

 _I’m not. I’m not thinking what I planned to do to you. How handy this rope would’ve been. And that throne. And the hot tub._ Mike squeezed Peter’s hand.

“Hot tub?” Peter asked out loud.

“Yeah, in the bathroom.” Mike pointed with a foot.

“They…didn’t come here to cause harm to us,” said the young witch, not looking at them.

“What then?” Mrs. Brown demanded.

The younger woman whispered to the woman next to her, who passed it on to the next who did the same, in a game of Witch Whispers. Eyes opened wide and heads swivelled to them as the news traveled through the coven to its leader.

“Well, do you have anything to say?” Mrs. Brown demanded of them.

“Yes…may we leave?” Peter asked, not meeting her eyes.

“I think you’d better,” came the answer.

Peter’s legs kicked out as the rope dropped a foot, then lowered them to the floor. Sideways on to the group, he plastered on an innocent smile and betted Mike was doing the same. The rope uncoiled from them and the door opened.

“Take your…purpose elsewhere,” Mrs. Brown ordered, a sly smile on her face. “You’ll find it quite renewed.”

Still standing back to back, and still wearing fake smiles, expecting to be turned into toads any second, Mike and Peter left and broke into a run the second they were out of the door and in the late-afternoon street, only to find themselves slowed…by massive boners.

“That’s her idea of a curse?” Mike scoffed as they neared the pad. “More like a gift! So all we gotta do now is, while everyone’s busy, get ourselves someplace alone and—”

“There you are!” A middle-aged woman waved from their doorway.

“ _Mrs. Dolenz?_ ” Mike shifted, pulling his shirt out from his waistband.

“Micky’s ready for trick or treat,” she informed them, pointing back inside the pad.

“Trick or treat? Oh, right!” Mike shot Peter a glance, one full of an empty pad and a whole ocean of possibilities. “Yeah, Micky has to be supervised—”

“Around candy!” Peter finished for Mike, his smile broad.

“So, thank you!” Mrs. Dolenz pulled her car keys from her purse.

“Thank… _us_?” That they were the ones doing the supervising hit them both. _No!_

“Michael!” Peter whimpered.

“See, this ain’t necessarily a problem, sugar. We can ditch him after a few streets,” Mike whispered to him.

“The others are ready too!” called Micky’s mom, jumping into her car.

“Others…?” Mike started to ask, for the answer to be revealed as the car zoomed away, revealing Micky’s three sisters. “Dang it!” Mike spat. “We…” He trailed off to stare at Micky, who was taller than usual, and whose neck finished in a ‘stump’ because his head was inside his extra-big shirt, that went up over it. He wore a black cape and boots too. “What are you?”

Micky tried to answer, but could only croak.

“I’ll tell you what he is!” Davy springing out from the pad made them jump. “He got so excited that he was shouting and talking non-stop, and he’s lost his voice! Know what that makes him?” He indicated the ‘decapitated’ looking Micky. “The headless hoarse man!” He slapped his thigh, almost choking on his laughter.

“Davy,” Mike finally said. He knew Davy had had plans for the afternoon. “Have you been waiting for us to get home to make that joke?”

“…yeah.” Davy refused to feel shame. “Worth it, though!”

“Oh yeah,” Peter agreed.

“Miss Coco…” Mike regarded Micky’s eldest sister in her slinky dress, strings of pearls and bright-red Cupid’s bow lipstick. “What are you?”

“A vamp,” she answered.

“…ire?” Mike asked.

“No, a _vamp_.” She swung a long rope of beads and did a shimmy.

Davy nudged Mike and Peter. “And there goes any hope of asking her to take over with the kids.” He sighed when they looked puzzled. “Keep forgetting you two don’t have sisters. Why d’you think she’s done up like that? She’s sloping off to meet someone soon as she can.”

“Well, maybe _we_ still can …” But they couldn’t, Mike discovered. Not when at the first corner, Milly handed over her nieces and nephews, Alice, Mark, Adam, and Michelle, and vanished, and definitely not when at the second, the Rawlings’ kids were foisted on them by their quickly disappearing mother too.

Within a few blocks, most of the neighborhood brats had joined their patrol, and wrangling the screeching, squealing, pushing, shoving, shouting, candy-scoffing and revenge-seeking missiles took all of his and Peter’s time and energy and killed any…romantic thought they might have had. “We ain’t never having kids, right?” Mike said through gritted teeth to Peter.

“More, you mean?” Peter pointed at Micky, up on Old Miser Macintosh’s roof.

“What’s he pouring down the chimney?” Mike peered up.

“I’m not _pouring_ , Mikey!” Micky called down, wriggling.

“Then… Oh god.” Mike squinched his eyes shut, rather than see where all the soda Micky had been guzzling by the gallon, from in between two shirt buttons, was…going.

He honestly didn’t know how he and Peter wrestled the unholy horde around the neighborhood and delivered them, chocolate-smeared, candy-sticky, and soda-soaked, back to their parents, but they did.

“And don’t even suggest grabbing some alone time back here,” Peter warned him as they limped slowly into the pad after hiding Micky’s pillowcase of candy under the floorboards in the garage. “We have to get changed now for Amanda’s Halloween party, her Monster Ball.”

“And I bet,” Mike muttered, “she chose that name on purpose.” Because after not getting his hands—or any other body part—on Peter, Mike thought that if _anyone_ had monster balls, it was—

“I get it!” Peter looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing, babe. Go get changed.” Mike headed for the bedroom.

“I haven’t had any time to think about a costume,” Peter called, a few minutes later, emerging from the wardrobe room.

“Oh, I have,” called Mike, descending the stairs from the bedroom.

The two stopped and stared, as did Davy and Micky, coming from the bathroom and sundeck, meaning the four of them met in the den.

“What a coincidence.” Davy pointed at them, then himself. “I too went for an easy homemade costume. But, Micky, I don’t get it. You’re not a werewolf? Why? Even when it’s _not_ Halloween you’re a bloody werewolf most of the time.”

“Oh, _man_!” Micky tripped over a bandage wound too loosely over his gray tracksuit as he stared at the four of them. “I chose this as I don’t got no cash and it was cheap and handy…but, we’re _all_ mummies?”

“No, no.” Mike shook his head, then grabbed for his hastily wound-on face and head coverings. He reached for a thick black marker pen and drew eight black dots on his chest bandages to represent buttons, then re-capped the pen. “We’re the Mummkees!”

“And people say we mummkee around!” Micky took the pen and got to work.

Muttering that _mummkee_ wasn’t a verb, Davy nevertheless took the pen in turn.

“Well, it should differentiate us a little from the other mummies,” Peter said a little later when, trailing bandages, they entered the Willises’ house and glimpsed a half-dozen other gray-white figures amongst all the black vampires and red devils.

“Let’s hope not too much,” Mike replied, making Peter turn to him, and not just to be heard over the music.

“That look…you had it when we went to get changed…and you’ve been going on for days about how depleted the household kitty is and we can’t go crazy with our party costumes…”

“Your point being?” Mike loved seeing Peter focus his attention on something as he figured things out. His eyes gleamed a bright amber and his lips parted just so…

“That you engineered this!”

“I’m a mummy, not an engineer.” But Mike grinned. “Well, yeah, I kinda thought it’d be easy to slip away, and not be missed if we were two of a crowd.” There were at least ten mummies visible in this room alone.

“Slip away?” Peter popped a sour candy between his lips and made them do that little pouty thing that made Mike want to do…other things to them. “But there’s apple bobbing, and jack-o-lantern carving, and eyeball pong and pumpkin piñata…”

“And punch brewing in a steaming cauldron, and hotdogs with ketchup tricked up to look like severed fingers,” Mike agreed. Actually, Amanda had gone all out, turning the garden into a haunted trail, with phosphorescent skeletons and skulls shining from the tress and overhead, cobwebs hanging low, and candles glowing in little orange and red holders on the pool. “So yeah, we could stay and enjoy the music and food and company, or…”

“Or…” Peter’s eyes were shining brighter than any candle.

“Or we go congratulate our hostesses, make sure they saw us…and leave as soon as possible.”

“To…” Peter plucked a bright red sugar lollipop from where its stick was poked into a skull-shaped sponge holder and stuck it into his mouth, Oh, his Peter, as desperate as Mike was, did still enjoy being bratty.

“Go back to the pad for me to fuck the sass out of you, until you beg for mercy.” Mike grinned. “Your choice, shotgun.”

“Hmm.” Peter licked his sucker. “And if my choice is to fuck the ass off of you?”

God, _of course_. For all he loved taking Mike’s cock, Peter must be just as desperate to fuck him as Mike was Peter. “I’d say that’s something we could work out,” Mike replied. “As soon as we _get_ out…”

Ten minutes later, after admiring their hostesses’ costumes—and Lucy as a witch’s cat—they sneaked out through the garden gate and were racing hell for if not leather, then easily torn-off bandages, down Beechwood Drive.


	14. October, 1966: Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just abject filth.

“First one back gets to top!” Mike shot at Peter as they reached the home straight, ripping free a strip of gray-white fabric slowing his stride.

He was ahead as they reached their drive, where Peter doubled over with a cry, clutching his side.

“ _Peter!_ ” Mike turned back to help, only to be pushed backward by a suddenly recovered Peter, who then made the front door first. “Oh, you little—” Righting himself, Mike bounded inside after that tricksy little sprite and slammed the door behind them, grabbing Peter at the same time. His heart leaped at the feel of Peter’s firm, toned body under his hands.

Peter, who made both yielding _and_ resisting an art form. Peter, whose sexy lips, reddened and swollen _from sucking on an oversized lollipop for Christ’s sake_ hinted at how they’d look later. How Mike would have them looking later. _Leave_ them looking.

But this wasn’t the time to reflect on that, or even on Peter’s sly, suggestive signaling. Not when those lips were there for Mike to devour, to turn their softness firm as he took them. He took Peter’s new and too-sugary taste for himself, licking away any residue of that synthetic candy flavor until he got at Peter’s natural, familiar sharp-sweetness. When MichaelandPeter Peter was restored, Mike intensified the kiss, sweeping his tongue deep for more of the real-Peter flavor, then drew back to nip his bottom lip because he knew Peter dug it. Oh, and he did, shivering under Mike, which made Mike smile against his mouth.

“Fingers?” Peter had to repeat it to get Mike to understand. He pulled back. “Seeing as we both want to top. Or, I guess you started first…”

That was their general rule, that whoever started got to call, but now Mike studied Peter’s face. He’d pledged to meet all Peter’s needs. No; he was privileged to do so.

“Peter.” Mike’s voice was as dark as the shadowy room. “Remember when I swore I’d always give you what you needed? I meant it.”

Peter’s eyes were already a darker brown with arousal. “Really? Then suck my dick.”

“ _Peter!_ ” Mike’s knees buckled. Peter talking _filth_ and in _that_ deep baritone went straight to Mike’s cock.

“You heard me— _eep_!”

His bratty words ended in the noise he made at Mike spinning him around to thud him against the closed door and then pawing at the strips of cloth covering him. Peter hadn’t worn clothes underneath his costume, not even the thin gym pants Mike had, only tight boxer-briefs. “I did hear you,” Mike assured him, sinking to his knees in front of Peter, and widening Peter’s stance just _so_. Whenever he did this in this position, he was reminded of their first time together. He flicked open the button and shoved his hand inside the placket of Peter’s boxers, finding him as hard as Mike was. “And I know what you want.”

“Even if I don’t.”

That didn’t require an answer and within seconds, Mike wasn’t able to make one, not with his mouth full of Peter, relearning his feel and taste. Mike pulled off to whisper, “Missed this,” before sliding his lips slowly down Peter’s cock again, readjusting to the length and girth. His Peter was a good size. Mike paused, not quite all the way down, pulled back, then dove back down again, fast and sure, all the way to the root. _Here_ and _this_ and _mine_ and _home_ , tiny fragments of thought, echoed through his mind.

Peter, no passive, easy lay even when getting a blow job, arched into him, pushing deeper, then shuddered when Mike’s throat muscles clenched around him. The tightening of his fingers in Mike’s hair stung, and Mike accepted that as his due. He quickened his sucking, sliding one hand from Peter’s hip to massage his balls, loving the indrawn gasp this elicited from Peter. Reckoning he could control Peter’s thrusts with his head on his stomach and his elbows on his thighs, if need be, Mike slipped his other hand down, pulling Peter’s briefs down and off him, then slid back up to rub along Peter’s taint and rest a finger at his hole.

He gave an extra-tight suck to Peter’s cock, flickering his tongue down the length and around the head, aiming for that sensitive ridge just beneath it, before pulling free. “More?” he asked, twisting to wipe his mouth on his arm. He’d used plenty of saliva. “Seeing stars yet?”

He betted Peter was, or as near as dammit. Fine tremors were coursing along his thighs and tiny ripples shivering on his stomach. He was leaning against the door for support, his hair in his eyes and his eyelids half-lowered. He opened his darkened eyes wide to see why Mike had stopped.

Stopped and turned away—Mike twisted to grope underneath the bottom drawer of the bureau near the door and rip free the lube taped there. He was confident it would still be where he’d left it—it wasn’t a spot Micky or Davy were likely to even _think_ about when they were cleaning.

“Rubbers and now lube,” Peter muttered, already a little breathless.

Yeah, he still stashed condoms about the place, for the other two, and more recently had broadened his range to include lube, hidden here and there for him and Peter. It had proved handy much more than once. Now, he grinned as he coated his fingers…because while Peter’s eyes were on that, Mike swallowed him down again, wringing a high-pitched cry from him.

“Michael—”

He was busy, his senses as full of Peter as his mouth was.

“Michael.” Peter gave a sharp tug on his hair to get his attention.

Mike eyed him. “Shotgun? You got somethin’ to say?”

Peter’s smile was wickedness incarnate. “Yeah, I do. Fuck. My. Ass.”

Oh, his Peter knew the effect his words and his attempt to seize control had on Mike. “Oh, I will darlin. But I gotta prep you first.” He waited a beat for Peter to relax, slightly, at that. “Oh, and you gotta come first.”

The shudder that racked Peter, almost folding his legs under him, wasn’t just at Mike’s words, coupled with having Mike on his knees for him. It was because Mike took him deep again, his throat tight and hot and wet around Peter’s dick…and also forced his slicked finger inside Peter’s ass at the same time. Peter jolted, his hands leaving Mike’s head to slap against the wood of the door at his back—Mike’s finger felt huge inside him and he didn’t stop his sudden, hard intrusion until his fingertip rubbed over the gland inside Peter that had him seeing stars, like Mike had said. And when Mike timed his passes over that bump in time with his sucking…

Peter fought not to sob or beg, even when the look Mike shot him said _you’ll come when I say_. He felt even bigger inside Peter now, the invasion one of blunt force. Well, his muscles there had closed up tight, after a week of abstinence. Then he did cry out: Mike’s tongue tip was in his slit and a second later he was using his teeth to deliver the tiniest, barely-there nip to the head of Peter’s cock. And all that at the same time he exerted that wicked-tight, overpowering pressure on Peter’s dick…that Peter craved.

He thought he knew what Mike would do next, but that didn’t mean he could stop it…or want to. No, he _needed_ , just as Mike had known, that hard rub over his prostate that had his fingers clawing into the door at his back. He hadn’t known Mike would hum around his dick, though, and Peter felt the vibrations in the roots of his hair and the soles of his feet. He had expected Mike to scissor the two fingers he must have lodged inside him, to stretch and prep him, and that had him digging his fingernails into the wood behind him that was keeping him upright. And he should have expected the easy, total command Mike had over his body, that brought him to climax within a minute.

He came hard and strong, his ears ringing, his head spinning, and he had to open his mouth wide to pull in the breath that had been slammed out of him. As soon as he could, the world still swimming around him, he forced his eyes open, even a crack, all they could do, because he wanted to see Mike swallowing his load. And it was a helluva load, no easy feat, but Mike took it, his throat working to swallow. The white haze blanketing Peter’s senses dissipated, bringing the world back into focus, and he freed his hands from their desperate scrabble at the door behind him to rest them on Mike’s head.

He wriggled and Mike, understanding, pulled off his overstimulated cock and slid his fingers from Peter’s ass. Peter squirmed against the still-there, too-much, too-full pain-pleasure, still feeling the stretch and burn, the being taken beyond his comfort into not exactly discomfort but— Something about the way Mike moved his hand had Peter’s eyes narrowing, and he understood.

“Three? You fucked me with three fingers, straight off? After I haven’t had anything in my ass for…” He couldn’t make his brain do the counting, not when his body was writhing, literally, in this knowledge. “ _Brute!_ ” he breathed, sliding to the floor.

“I gotta open you up.” Mike coughed a little and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Oh, you want me to just fuck you open?”

“No _wonder_ it felt fucking huge.” Peter fidgeted a little more, mainly as Mike’s eyes were on him.

“Oh, you not telling me you’re sore already?” Mike, still massively erect mocked. “When I used plenty of slick? I greased you up _good_ , shotgun. Got ya ready to take me.”

Peter had wondered, of course he had, what their first fuck would be like when Mike returned. If Mike would be tender, his actions born of guilt for having gone away and left Peter, and so being sweet and loving to make up for it, cherishing Peter all the more for having been apart from him, relearning his body in acts of almost worship. Peter would have liked that, sure, but _this_? This he _needed_. And Mike understood. Forcing his hand to work, Peter reached out to tear some of Mike’s stupid costume away. “So how about fewer words and more deeds, cowboy?”

Mike closed his fingers around Peter’s hand. “Ya mean, less talkin’ and more fuckin’?”

“I mean, I want you inside me now.”

He wasn’t too surprised when Mike scooted into a sit and grabbed him by the hips to pull him onto his lap. “’S’gonna be rough…can you take it?” he murmured. It was Mike’s turn to wriggle, free of his gym pants and boxers, his only remaining items of clothing, and no easy feat with Peter held to him. “Gonna be fast and hard… Oh and you’re gonna come again, first. At least once more.”

Peter’s pulse rocketed as Mike closed his fingers around him. Although he’d just climaxed, was still drifting and languorous from the expert blowjob Mike had given him, his cock stirred, making Mike crow in triumph.

“Soon get ya goin’ again,” he gloated. “And you heard me—I ain’t fucking you until you come for me again. Which ain’t gonna be a problem, not with you bein’ so easy to get all fired up. With how slutty you are…”

“It’s you,” Peter managed, making Mike huff out a laugh.

“Yeah, I taught ya good. Got ya all trained up for me, and you come when I say, just like a good boy should.”

“You know what they say…” Peter gasped a little when Mike tightened his grip and gave the first slow pull on his dick. “Every good boy deserves f…ucking.” He would have smiled at Mike’s pained expression, his reaction to the stupid joke, if he’d been able.

Peter often marvelled at Mike’s stamina, and never more than now, when Mike was rock-hard and pulsing inches from him, his body flushed. If Peter didn’t have his hands stuck out behind him for balance, he’d have reached for Mike’s cock, tested his control. Well, there were more ways to do that. He almost cried out when Mike quickened the movements of his hand on his shaft. “Hard and fast? Yeah, I groove on that, but I also dig slow.”

He lay back, draping himself off Mike’s lap onto the floor, leaning on his elbows. “Slow and long and deep, like in Catalina, remember?” He caught Mike’s fractured inhalation at the memory Peter was deliberately invoking. “When you jacked me twice while you stayed inside me, screwing me.”

Mike stilled his hand for a few moments before working Peter root to tip in one long pull that had Peter panting. “Typical—I take you away for the weekend and I do all the work.”

“Ha!” It was half rebuttal, half gasp. “And the next day, who worked who then? Me, when you got your wish to lie in the sunken tub for hours, with me giving you head the entire time.”

“Keeping me at the edge…” As Mike was doing now, cupping Peter’s balls in his free hand, stroking and squeezing them as he worked Peter’s pulsing shaft, spreading the pre-cum he called forth down the rigid length in an ever-quickening series of steady pulls that had Peter’s back arching off the floor. He’d just come, but would be begging for release in a few minutes, he knew. Not like Mike, who’d had Peter suckle him for hours—

“Until I finally held you still to fuck your throat,” Mike continued, his eyelids fluttering shut at the memory. “Yeah, love your sweet mouth on me, working my cock. Love working your cock too.” He jerked Peter faster, the wet-flesh sound competing with Peter’s laboured breathing. When Mike twisted his hand over the head at the top of his trajectory, then teased his fingers over the leaking slit, all Peter could do was thrust into Mike’s fist in short, sharp jabs, then come in a sudden and almost harsh climax, spurting over Mike’s hand and onto his own belly.

It was short-lived—he’d come hard once already—and intense and _perfect_.

“Look at you.” The admiration in Mike’s voice suggested he was worshipping something perfect, and had Peter forcing his eyes open and his stomach muscles to work to pull his top half off the floor. “Like a sculpture.”

Mike often compared him to an angel, but Peter, spent, heaving in breath, his hair sweat-soaked strings, the cum streaking his stomach and lower chest making pearlescent strings over his heated, dark-pink sex-flushed skin, felt far from saintly at that moment. “More of a fallen angel,” he murmured.

“Best kind. Beautiful and dirty,” Mike husked.

And before Peter could process, much less recover, Mike pulled him to his feet. He spun him and pushed, just slightly, but enough to make Peter bring up his hands against the wall, to break his almost-fall into it, then and when Mike slapped his ass. “Now you’re ready,” Mike whispered into his ear, nipping at the lobe. “Oh, and you’re gonna come again, when I’m fucking you.”

He knew Peter wanted to make some smart-ass, bratty, mouthy rejoiner, but was too out of breath, too out of it, really, although he turned his face to the side to watch Mike. Mike watched him for a few seconds, his dazed coffee-brown eyes, his messy, sweat-darkened bangs, his flushed skin, his parted, panting lips, before slicking his cock and fingers with the lube.

“Stick out that eager ass for me,” Mike ordered. “Fucken love it.” Peter was still too spaced out to comply so Mike didn’t wait, just slapped one cheek again, harder this time, making Peter cry out. He didn’t flinch when Mike ran a finger down his crack, but his eyes opened wider, and he pushed back when he felt Mike’s massively erect cock straining at his ass.

“Jesus, you’re _tight_ ,” Mike groaned, pressing his dick into the puckered hole, moaning with satisfaction when it gave way. He forged inside an inch, then two, grunting at the way the muscles resisted then spasmed around him, squeezing and fluttering as Peter accepted the invasion. “ _How_ are you so tight, with how often this ass gets fucked? Oh, no complaints.” He curved forward to Peter’s ear, to assure him in a filthy whisper, “I fucken love it.”

Peter twisted his head back, in a futile attempt to reach Mike’s lips. “Me too,” he managed to reply, his teeth biting down on his lower lip when Mike moved in him.

Mike pulled out, relishing the squelch and pop, to apply more lube, and saw Peter’s asshole flutter closed at the emptiness. Neither of them wanted that. He pushed inside again, then again and again, going deeper and deeper with each thrust, his hands clamped to Peter’s hips to help fight the resistance Peter’s muscles were putting up. “That’s better,” he breathed—now when he pulled out, Peter’s hole wasn’t closing all the way. “You’re opening up good for me now. All ready for me to fuck you _hard_.”

On the last word, the only warning he’d give, he slid all the way home, not stopping until his balls were pressed against Peter’s heated skin. The half-laugh forced from him was harsh. “Because that’s what you need.”

 _What_ you _need_. Peter didn’t need to say it, not when the look in his eyes, fixed on Mike’s from where his head was twisted to the side, said it for him.

“Yeah.” The admission came out on a groan when Mike shoved himself a fraction of an inch deeper, grinding his hips into Peter’s ass, and Peter’s asshole pulsed around his dick. Which of course made Mike do it again, to make it spasm and work him, while he still could. He wouldn’t last long, not with the electrical storm gathering at the base of his spine. He didn’t think Peter could come again, but reached for his cock anyway, and found it trying to fill.

He was driving into Peter hard now, and that plus Mike’s hand on his dick made Peter arch, his head tipping back and nearly smacking into Mike’s, then cry out. “ _Thank fuck_ ,” Mike breathed, when Peter’s ass clamped around him. He drove his hips forward, the clench of Peter’s muscles wringing his climax from him as strong and unstoppable as an act of nature. He threw his head back on a shout, his muscles locked as pleasure, powerful, overwhelming _pleasure_ , roared in his brain, flooding Peter with his heat and whiting the world out for Mike.

He hung there a minute, his hands over Peter’s on the wall, sweat dripping from him onto Peter and both their ragged breaths filling the den. When he could, he pressed a soft kiss to the back of Peter’s damp neck. “Gonna pull out,” he murmured, and Peter braced under him. Mike moved as slowly as he could, hating to cause Peter discomfort, and hating to leave the warm haven of Peter’s body. He whispered words of praise and love as he grabbed a handful of their discarded bandages and blotted Peter front and back, then himself.

He helped Peter to turn around and assessed him, still blotchy from his climaxes, his face slack and his hair a mess. _I did that_ , he couldn’t stop himself thinking. The narrowed eye Peter turned on him let Mike knew he’d caught that.

“You’re hardly catwalk-ready yourself,” Peter muttered, his voice getting stronger with each word.

“Never was, babe.” Mike gave him a final dab, this on his torso. “Unlike you.” He looked about. Hadn’t they been wearing socks, if not shoes, at some point? “Couch?” He needed to not be on his feet.

“Podium?” Peter suggested. There was a small pile of blankets and cushions there, for some reason.

Mike helped him walk there, gathering their briefs and his pants en route. He left again to rustle up sodas from the kitchen, and saw Peter at the jukebox. “Sappy,” he commented on the song, returning and handing Peter an open bottle of cola. “You choose all the syrupy love songs?”

“Yes.” Peter drained half the bottle in one long swallow that commanded Mike’s attention. He loved Peter’s strong, wide throat. “It’s how you make me feel.”

“Aw, babe.”

“Well, that and sore.”

“Oh, sugar!” Mike hung his head, but had to peek up. “But…I’m worth it?”

Peter glugged the rest of his drink. “Get me another of these and we’ll see. Yes. You are. Of course!”

They settled in a corner of the picture window, from where they could look out into the night, not that there was much to see, and still be part of the room. Peter waved at their reflection, and Mike waved back, the smile on his face as sappy as he’d accused Peter of being.

Peter rubbed at his chin. “And now we can shave off these beards! That was a crazy idea—something to do to connect us while we were apart.”

“Yeah.” Peter should be clean-shaven. That beard was dangerous. Which reminded Mike… He wriggled them both until he could see Peter’s toes with their painted nails. See…and appreciate. He didn’t know which color he liked best. “Oh, dang!” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“I was gonna count your freckles the minute I got back. Promised myself. To see if the number changed, you know?”

Peter laughed. “You missed me, then.”

“So much.” It was no laughing matter to Mike.

“Me you.”

He’d just pulled Peter close to drop a tender kiss on his lips when the front door opened and Lucy came in. They sprang apart and pulled the blankets up to their chins. She couldn’t have seen them—she was picking up discarded clothes and placing them on the table near the door.

“You’re back early,” Mike called.

“A little.” She approached, shrugging. “I want an early start tomorrow, for my last day.” She looked from one to the other, her head tilted to one side. “Although…I am having such a good time…and I got another week’s vacation to use before the end of this year…”

“You’re most welcome to stay longer,” Peter said, into the silence when Mike didn’t speak. “We’d love you to stay as long as you like. Right, Michael? Michael?” He nudged him.

“Lucy.” Mike sat straighter. “You’re sure welcome here as our guest, as long as you like. But…you should know something.” He pulled his hand from beneath the blanket. Pulled _their_ hands, because they were entwined. “Peter and I are together. In a relationship, I mean. Partners.”

“I…see.” Lucy half-turned and paced a few steps. “And when were you going to tell me? Or you couldn’t?”

“Lucy…” Mike appreciated the squeeze Peter gave to their joined hands. “I…”

“Didn’t have to, you Tex-ass!” Lucy swung back to the table and indicated the pile of stuff on it. “If I hadn’t just picked up your clothes from the street, where you tore them off in such an all-fired hurry to get in here, I could have told from the second I walked in the door with you, from the way you looked at Peter in those sexy little shorts, shorts he’d put on for you, and from how Peter looked at you back! And before that, back home, where every second word outta your mouth was ‘Peter’!”

“What?” Mike gasped, scowling at Peter when he sniggered.

Lucy perched on the raised edge of the bandstand. “Oh, Mike, you were obviously missing someone! It was as plain as a dog with two tails. So much so that Aunt Bette and Mom asked me to come see if things were okay out here, make sure he was treating you right.”

“He…” Mike gave up on that line of thought. Lucy could see for herself how right things were. “And you’re okay with it?” he asked. “You’re kinda traditional, were raised with religion…and that tends to be very judgmental on this issue.” He was clutching Peter’s hand too hard, and made an effort to relax.

Lucy stood. “Well, I don’t know Ancient Greek, or whatever the Bible’s written in, to understand the original words. I don’t know anyone who does, truth be told. So how do we know if there isn’t more than gets told to us, that there isn’t more there?” She glanced at Micky’s mural.

“Like a burger shack in the Garden of Eden?” Mike remembered her words. “Wait. Micky’s crappy artwork has some merit?”

“Micky’s chasing after blondes illustrated a point, or even saved the day?” Peter added.

“We’re still painting over it though.” Mike stood to look at it.

“Or painting clothes on it.” Peter accepted the hand Mike held out to pull him to his feet. “Although it’s good that the ketchup bottle covers Micky’s—”

“Buns. And wiener.”

“Cousin _Lucy_!” Mike yelped, at her interruption. The bottle was strategically placed, but— “We’re getting off track here.”

“Yeah. I like to just go by what the scripture says: God is love. And boy, do I see love here. A lot of love.” Lucy smiled at them. “I see Peter treating you right and you him.”

Was that a tear she was wiping from her eye? “Cousin…” Feeling watery himself, Mike held out his arms, one hand still joined with Peter’s, to bring her in for a hug.

“Tomorrow’s fine for that.” Lucy stepped back. “When you’ve showered, and got some clothes on, huh?”

Peter elbowed him. “You’re blushing.”

“Am not.” He probably was. “Why didn’t you say? That you knew?”

“I was waiting for you to!” Lucy cried. “To say that you love Peter.”

“I do. I really do!” Mike informed her. And Peter.

“That’s good, seeing as I love you!” Peter retorted.

“ _Finally!_ ” Shaking her head and calling good night, Lucy headed for her room.

“So, that’s that.” Peter leaned against Mike. “Now it’s just my parents to tell. At Christmas. Which should be…alarming. Maddening. Frustrating…”

He was still spouting adjectives when Mike took him upstairs to bed, but then he descended into inarticulate syllables and then just noises. They both wanted to pretend not to hear Micky and Davy banging on the locked door, wanting to come to bed, but thought they’d better let them in. Let just Davy in, it turned out…

“Micky?”

“Got talking to some friend of Toby from college about art…and he’s painting another mural on the side of the house.” Davy snapped his eye mask on.

“Biblical?” Mike didn’t want to imagine Micky’s version of Noah’s Ark.

“And much less Sodom and Gomorrah,” Peter muttered.

“Nah. She’s an Art History major. They were looking through a book of famous classical paintings and he got inspired to copy one of them. You know that Whatsit Man, by Leonardo da Vinci?” Davy slid into bed.

“Oh, with the extra arms and legs?” Mike held out his arms like clock hands.

“Yeaaaah…only he didn’t have his glasses on when he was looking at the picture…”

“And?” Mike regretted asking even before he asked.

“It’s not a man with extra _limbs_ …that Micky’s painting.” Davy grimaced.

Wincing, Mike pulled the blanket up over his head and shuddering, Peter joined him, as the sounds of paint sloshing on a wall came up from the garden…


	15. Mid January 1967

Mike scowled at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and grabbed for a square of toilet paper to blot up the trickle of blood that catching himself with the razor had caused. He turned his scowl from his abused face in the mirror to the guilty razor in his hand. “Blunt!” he yelped. “The shaving razor’s blunt! And it hurts!” _Oh._ Interesting cadence to that couplet but— “I never leave razors blunt,” he said, through gritted teeth and scrabbled around on the shelf for the styptic pencil. He pulled off the cap and ran its tip over the cut, bracing for the sting. _It stings…hmm. The shaving razor’s—_

 _Not stinging._ Because it wasn’t. Instead, it was leaving a brown streak on his skin. Because it wasn’t an antiseptic pencil, but an eyebrow pencil. Of which he’d never known there were such things, until earlier this month. He re-capped the makeup item and returned it to the drawer of the new bureau stand, or whatever the hell you called a flimsy, spindly-legged chest of drawers in a john.

Peter counselled deep breathing, from the diaphragm, so Mike tried, averting his eyes from the mirror and his paper-adorned face, only to catch sight of bottles left without their tops on. Tutting, he bent to replace them…and got his head tangled up in a pair of wet pantyhose, hung up to dry. His head and his face—they snagged on the short hairs he’d been forced to leave. He ripped the nylons free, grappling with them as if fighting a seaweed monster.

At least those were long and he’d seen them _and_ removed them. He still blushed, remembering how he’d felt something on his head after a morning bathroom visit in Toby’s first days here, and, used to wearing a woolhat, hadn’t thought anything to it…until he’d gone out into the street and Mrs. Homer had screamed…at the pair of pink silk panties stuck in Mike’s hair. Toby hadn’t helped matters—when had she ever?—by running after Mike and calling, “Mike! You’ve got my pink panties and I need them—they go with this bra, look! Can you take another pair instead? The oyster-colored ones would look good on you—they say they suit every skin tone?”

Exiting the bathroom, Mike remembered just in time not to jump at the massive stone garden planters on very tall, broad, plinths, one either side of the bathroom door. They were enormous because Toby “There’s nothing more elegant than a stone urn with cascading plants and flowers…well, except two. For symmetry” Willis-Dolenz had ordered them from an English shop, and, thinking they used centimeters there, had assumed the vases and their bases would be smaller.

Instead, they stood like giant gray stone columns, reaching halfway to the ceiling. Yes, he supposed he was lucky she hadn’t ordered the matching gray stone statue too. That angel with outstretched wings would have filled the whole den. He didn’t feel so lucky when he tripped on a trailing vine, though, although he should be used to it—he did it every time he used the john. His ankle had had more twists than a hula hoop. This time, his mind had been wandering, wondering just _what_ Toby had used his razor to shave…

Toby Willis-Dolenz. Because Toby and Micky were married. And living at 1334 Beechwood Drive, the pad, with him, Peter and Davy. None of it seemed real to Mike, not even with Toby’s attempt at gracious living décor scattered here and there. He made a detour to the couch just to shake his head once more at her attempt at an embroidered pillow. The fat square of the front bore a cryptic message, three words taking up most of the space, one in the top left corner, one in the middle and one toward the bottom right. Too far toward the bottom right.

Home

Sweat

Ho

the stitched message read, because Toby’s needlepoint was lousy, her follow-through on a par, and her spelling worse than Micky’s.

“And she’s a journalist!” Mike raged. No. Deep breathing. Mike tried, looking out of the picture window to the beach and ocean. _Focus on positives_ , Peter said, in his mediation sessions. At least Toby’s—nominal—profession meant that, needing a phone, she paid the phone bill. Well, she’d promised to, when it came at the end of the month. She hadn’t been here a month yet? Sure felt like it. So, that was a plus. If it was a minus that Toby spent even more time on the phone than Davy, well. _Focus on positives_ , Mike told himself. Like Peter said.

 _Peter…._ Mike caught the faint notes of incense and apricot and glimpsed a flash of blond hair behind him, a muted reflection in the glass of the back window, as if thinking of Peter had conjured him up. He reached a hand back, needing to connect with his darlin’…but it wasn’t Peter’s strong, toned thigh his fingers curled around. No, this one was a much thinner and punier leg, and one that his unwitting groping of had Mike freezing in horror.

“ _Mike!_ ” Toby giggled, giving a playful slap to the hand Mike was trying to unparalyse and tug free. “What if Micky saw! Well, sure, he’s never up this time of the morning. And yes, he doesn’t usually have his glasses on… Oh. _I_ see! Oh!”

“No! You don’t! No!” Mike protested, _insisted_ , over her knowing—and erroneous—raised eyebrow and pursed lips. He pointed at her head. “Apricot shampoo! You used the apricot shampoo in the bathroom, right?”

“That’s _right_!” She sounded like she was going to give him a prize. “It’s got hand-ground apricot kernels.”

“I know—I bought it!” Mike yelped.

“But it’s for blondes. ‘Beautifully natural, for naturally beautiful blondes.’”

“For Peter,” Mike managed through gritted teeth. “I bought it for Peter.”

“Oh. Ooh!” Toby’s face brightened. “And it made you feel me up: that’s—”

“No. No I didn’t. And no—”

“An incident!” Toby finished, over Mike’s “It isn’t!” She bounced off for the tape recorder, repeating “apricot shampoo, mistaken groping,” as she struggled to turn the machine on. “For my column!” she called over her shoulder.

“ _Toby!_ ” Mike tried to tone down the desperation in his voice. “Aren’t you cooking something? Possibly also for your light-hearted Diary of a Newly Wed Hip and Happening LA Chick column?” He pointed at the stove.

“That’s not the title…but that’s not bad, actually… Oh yes!” Toby leaped to rescue her…whatever it was.

Mike headed for the fire extinguisher and bumped into Davy coming out of his room holding a matching one.

“Blimey. They choosing a new Pope?” Davy inquired. He peered over to gauge the degree and extent of whatever was causing it, then set the extinguisher down. This didn’t rank highly on the scale, more curling sooty wisps than sea fog-thick anthracite belches. He took in the sight of Toby attempting cooking, surrounded by her latest ‘home beautiful’ attempts. “You know, I think life was easier when we were waiting on her hand and foot, before?”

“When _we_ were?” Mike questioned, a little sourly. But yeah, he agreed it had been easier in many ways when Toby had first moved in, before she got the idea to rip off Amanda’s column _Marriage is an Institution – and I’m committed!_ in which the besotted Amanda, Toby’s house guest over the summer and fall, gushed about life as a young, titled British second wife to an older, widowed, American military husband, after she’d fallen for General Vandenberg at first sight and he’d proposed—marriage—on their second meeting.

The couple, after a whirlwind marriage, now lived in Washington DC while Harley worked at the Pentagon…and Amanda found navigating life as a military spouse in a toney neighborhood with a stepdaughter only a little younger than herself, plus twin stepsons mostly away at military academy, a rich seam of material to mine.

Davy slumped at the table, comparing Amanda’s column, the first of which was just out in _Verve!_ , with Toby’s notes for her copy-cat idea, hopefully for _Minx_ , where Amanda had been on secondment from its London counterpart and where Toby had occasional work. ‘“ _Pop Goes Single_ ’?” he read. “Oh, that her latest title? ‘From slick chick making the scene about town to hippy happy wife of a handsome, talented, bohemian pop star. And get struggling and finger on the pulse in there as well.’”

“I see the sub-heading’s coming along,” Mike commented, snaking his arms around either side of Toby for a cup and the coffeepot and hoping the coffee wasn’t burnt as well. He poured a glass of water for Davy who was still choking over Toby’s choice of adjectives to describe her husband, Micky. “It’s artistic licence.”

“I'll say.” Davy showed him the mock-ups Toby had made of a possible picture to illustrate her by-line. “I’m pretty sure that’s not Micky’s body. Looks like Butch the bodybuilder’s body.”

“With Frankie Catalina’s head on.” Mike agreed. He put his cup down on one of the swirling colored circles of their new plastic tablecloth. It matched their new plastic crockery, to the extent it made finding plates and bowls laid on it tricky, and also went with the new rugs and throws. Most of the pad, now Toby’s thankfully short-lived gracious living attempt had been abandoned for her slick hip chick phase, looked like a half-dozen lava lamps had exploded in it, and the bright orange and yellow hues made Mike wear sunglasses more. Indoors.

“At least she’s stopped stuffing Micky into blazers and cravats,” Mike commented. He’d started wearing dark glasses at the brightness of the gold buttons on everything Micky had been forced to wear.

“Well, I can understand her smartening Micky up.” Davy stole Mike’s coffee and took a sip. “With her being used to me, I mean. I’m a hard act to follow—anyone else would be a step down.”

“Erm, I think you’ll find you’re the one who’s a step down? Like, literally?” Micky slid up behind them and pantomimed lowering his head a foot to be on Davy’s level.

He slipped over to Toby and wrapped himself around her from behind to nuzzle under her ear, like Mike and Peter did to each other, like Peter was doing now, bending over the seated Mike to slide his hands Mike’s chest and kiss the side of his neck.

Toby screamed and brought her head back, to smash his nose, and raised her foot, to scrape her heel down his shin and stamp down on the top of his foot. “It’s me!” he assured her. “Micky!”

“Micky?” She sounded puzzled for a second. “Oh, right.”

Giving up on that, Micky took his place at the table with the three of them and kicked Davy’s foot. “At least you didn’t say yours are big shoes to fill, seeing as yours are just—”

“Breakfast!” Toby slapped a still-smoking pan down on the table.

“It looks…” Peter, well brought up, tried to be polite about the charred black balls of something stuck to the pot, but gave in.

“It’s deviled eggs.” Toby slapped a stack of plastic plates down too.

“Deviled? Toby, they’re scorched _black_!” Mike pointed out.

“That’s not what devilled is? Like, burned in hellfire?” Toby looked at the four of them. “Well, where did I get that idea, then? Huh. But you can see it’s an easy mistake to make, right?”

“Erm…” Mike tried.

“Well…” Micky took up the baton.

“It’s…” Davy couldn’t run very far with it.

Peter just shrugged.

“And ooh! An incident! Micky, take a pic!” Toby threw him her camera. “Get the dish in. I’ll go for looking puzzled.” She wrinkled her brow, one finger to her mouth. “Now rueful.” This was her shrugging, eyebrows raised. “Now—”

“Hungry,” Davy threw in, glaring at Micky, clicking away and pretending not to hear him.

“I’ll make some toast, if Micky and Peter got bread at the store?” Mike offered, watching Micky. “Peter, come help?” He wanted to talk to him. “I think we caused this,” he muttered, switching on the grill.

“We had to do that intervention.” Peter lit the gas under the kettle for tea. “It wasn’t good for Toby to always be a passenger, like she was on permanent honeymoon, never even cooking or cleaning, claiming she didn’t know how to work anything in the pad.”

“She still doesn’t!” Mike gestured at the blackened pan and its charred offerings. He looked for eggshells to throw into the trash and, not finding any, realized Toby had cooked the eggs still in them. Just simply baked them like that, in the oven.

“It’s good she has a focus now. A goal. Something to work toward,” Peter insisted.

“Yeaahhh…” That hadn’t been what Mike was referring to, but…

He turned to where Toby, on Micky’s shoulders, was hanging another huge circular glass ball of a lamp, one more colored goldfish bowl to add to the others, from the ceiling, this one, like the others, so low-hanging that everyone except her and Davy would bang their heads on it. More specifically, Mike looked at Micky. Because for all Toby’s hippily married schtick, Mike didn’t think she was happy at all, and Micky even less, and he determined to talk to Micky about it the first chance he got.

But the day went by at its usual frenetic pace, stuffed full with its usual improbable but happening anyway events, and, returning to the pad, Mike wondered if his best chance had been that morning, and he’d missed it. _Your chances come but once, and boy I sure missed mine…_ Hmm. Interesting lyrics, and that beat…

He scribbled the lines down where he stood, at the front door, then entering, went for his guitar to set the lines to the country-rock beat in his head, hoping to get the blend of emotion and energy he could hear, but stopped. They had guests, all dressed up and trying not to flinch or wipe their eyes too obviously at the frantic clatter of pots and pans and the fumes coming from the kitchen.

“Howdy, ladies!” Mike greeted Micky’s family. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Dolenz.” He raised his eyebrows at Peter for some help here.

“A week or so back, Toby invited her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law for a supper party,” Peter, looking hastily changed into a suit, said. _When she was in her Park Avenue Princess phase_ , he didn’t need to clarify.

“Invited and forgot,” added Davy on a fake cough.

“And this is why I’m always telling you to write things on the calendar!” Mike tapped the page.

“I did!” Toby protested, joining him, a huge chef’s knife in one hand and a bunch of bananas in the other. “Look! Supper Family Micky. In shorthand. Sort of.”

“Wait. _That’s_ what that S+M you got written in for tonight means?” Mike felt…relieved.

“It’s a _F_ , not a plus sign, but yes. Supper Family Micky… Why? What did you think it meant?” Toby stared at him.

“Nothing! I didn’t want to think anything!” Mike assured her. He’d been trying to stamp down hard on the picture his traitorous, treacherous mind’s eye had conjured up and been tormenting him with ever since he’d seen Toby’s scribbled…plans. “Let’s all sit down to enjoy a nice supper, huh?”

“We getting take-out, then?” Davy muttered, glancing at the frantic Micky, who was tipping a little of every tin and packet in the larder into a bubbling pan of water that he was frenziedly stirring.

“It might not be too bad,” said Peter, the pad’s peacemaker.

It wasn’t. It was so much worse. Not just the ‘food’—Toby had sliced her now shelled but still bullet-hard and coal-black eggs over a huge dish of crunchy noodles that Mike doubted she’d boiled, as if her cuisine worked on the principles of opposites; here over and undercooked—but when Coco suddenly pointed at her brother.

“I gotta ask. Why are you wearing a tablecloth with a hole cut in it?” she inquired.

“It’s not a tablecloth. It’s a poncho and very hip and groovy, sis.” He glared at her.

She shook her head. “It’s a tablecloth, part of that box of old, fusty, musty stuff Mom couldn’t bear to throw out over the years, and so offloaded onto you when you told her you’d gotten married. I know because I dropped it off, remember?”

“ _Gemma!_ ” hissed her mother, looking shifty.

“And why’s the hole all jagged, and brown?” Coco peered harder. “As if someone had scorched the tablecloth while ironing it, then cut out the burn mark and—”

“Toby!” Micky swallowed. “Did you burn this when you ironed it, cut a hole in it and tell me it was a poncho, the latest in thing?”

“No, I did not! I burned it when I _forgot_ I was ironing it and went to have a bubble bath. You remember, it was the same day as we had that flood?” she replied.

So not just her cooking, but all her housework worked on a paradigm of opposing forces. Burned and raw, fire and water… Mike didn’t want to know what her take on light and dark or earth and air could be. But, trying to muster a smile—whether puzzled or rueful; he didn’t know—for Toby’s camera when she deemed this another column-worthy incident, he had a feeling that she and Micky were, if not chalk and cheese, then maybe each other’s fingernails on a chalkboard.

He’d said to Peter earlier that he thought they’d caused this, with ‘they’ being him and Peter, or more precisely, MichaelandPeter, and this was what he feared. They’d learned two months back that they’d both, over the time they’d lived in Beechwood…Mike didn’t want to say _played_ with Micky, exactly, any more than he wanted to recall how they’d explored this not so much in a joint counselling session, but _after_. It still made him blush. _We really gotta find a new therapist._ But one thing was for sure, Micky, while wholeheartedly supporting them becoming MichaelandPeter, felt a little left out. Lonely. And wanted a real, meaningful, loving relationship of his own…and perhaps wasn’t going the best way about it.

Like now, with their guests gone and them all relaxing in the den. He and Peter had gotten the sofa, Peter changed into those worn-thin jeans Mike loved him in—and out of—and a soft orange tee, lying with his head on a pillow in Mike’s lap, where Mike sat with his legs stretched out onto the low stool, absently playing with Peter’s hair or rubbing his upper back as he half-watched TV and half peered down at the book Peter was reading. Poetry. Looked a little spicy too—

“Mike!” Micky had clearly called his name more than once. “Mind if I change the channel?”

“No, go ’head.” _The Fugitive_ wasn’t that gripping. “You wanna watch _The Danny Kaye Show_? Or, no, Dean Martin, huh?” Micky liked all that variety hour stuff.

“No.” Micky settled back down into the chaise and raised his eyebrows at Toby who was hovering around. “The Thursday Night Movie. It’s a romantic drama…” He patted his lap invitingly. “About a couple who meet and have a passionate love affair…” He patted harder then hard enough to make Mike wince for him. “In Rome,” he added, as if that were the clincher. “Toby?”

Mike winced harder still for Micky when Toby was more interested in third-wheeling Davy and Sooze, the local chick who’d always been a Toby copy-cat and who was kinda the new Toby in Davy’s life: on hand for when he was a loose end, like tonight. Toby was giving them their privacy, out on the sundeck…by joining in their conversation through an open window.

“The hero’s a mounted policeman. On a horse. Got a cape and a sword,” Micky wheedled, and Toby turned around and took a look. When she near enough, Micky more or less lassoed her, and toppled her to squeeze in next to him.

Mike averted his eyes from the wrestling match that ensued, until Toby got comfy. It bore no resemblance to the easy fit of his and Peter’s bodies, despite Micky casting glances over, then moving himself or his companion to duplicate what he saw. When Micky did get Toby’s upper body under his arm and her head on his chest, looking like he had her in a half-headlock, half-chokehold, to stroke his hand up her torso, he let out a shocked squeal.

“I cut my finger!” he exclaimed, wrenching it free and shaking it. “How can I cut my finger caressing your chest?”

“Oh, I keep a pencil in my bra, to write down stuff.” Toby jerked down her neckline and tugged a small, slim pencil free from a lacy bra cup. “My journalism professor told us to always make sure we had a pen or pencil to hand. I tried sticking one to my hand, to follow what he said, but I had to go to hospital.” She showed him a roughened patch on her palm…that could have been caused by having glue surgically removed from it. “So I thought, a hand’s to a glove what the boobs are to a bra, right?”

“But how would that cut me?” Micky asked thickly around his bleeding finger that he was sucking.

“Oh, it didn’t. You cut it on the knife I use to keep the pencil sharp.” Toby pulled that free too. It too was small and slim…and the blade very pointed. “My father’s always going on about me not having the sharpest pencil in the box, or something, so I thought I’d show him!”

Into the pause that followed this, Micky said faintly, “I think I need a bandage.”

“Ask Toby if she has one in her bra,” Mike suggested. “She seems to carry a basic survival kit in it.”

She didn’t, so Micky fetched himself one. It sorta took the romance from the evening though. Even the passionate love affair on the screen between the strong and silent—and married—police _Ispettore_ and the perky and blonde—and married—American teacher couldn’t restore it, no matter how much _gelato_ the couple ate while walking up and down the Spanish Steps, or how expertly their Vespa weaved around the Colosseum.

Well, until Mike and Peter headed up to bed, Peter first, his book tucked under his arm and his ass in those tight jeans swaying just ahead of Mike. No, Mike wouldn’t grab. He’d be casual, would go about his normal bedtime wash and teeth-cleaning routine, and let Peter go about his…

“Whatcha readin’ there, babe?” he inquired, as soon as Peter inched out of the tiny Non-Suite. “It looked a little racy?” He perched on the edge of the bed.

“Interesting word choice.” Peter took up the book from where he’d left it on the nightstand and opened it to his bookmark. “It’s very early Latin erotic homosexual poetry, from Catullus to his love Licinius, and this bit struck me…

We at leisure have played  
many things on my boards,  
as we agreed to be racy:  
and both of us writing small verses  
were playing with a meter just here just there,  
giving back mutual words through joke and wine…”

He smiled at Mike. “Remind you of anyone? Any two, I should say?”

“Wow.” Mike blinked. It wasn’t just the words, from so long ago, but describing them, here now. It was Peter, standing in the circle of lamplight, reciting them, to Mike. “Tell me more later?” he husked.

“Later, and not now, because…?” Peter’s lips quirked, making that enticing teeny-tiny mole dance—and Mike want to chase it with the tip of his tongue—and he obeyed Mike’s _come-here_ gesture, laying down his book and approaching near enough for Mike to run his appreciative hands up Peter’s legs to his ass in those second-skin denim jeans. He lingered there for long moments, cupping and squeezing, before pulling Peter down to sit next to him…and pulling him close for a kiss.

Peter’s lips opened obediently under his, for Mike to sweep his tongue inside. He tasted the citrus tang of the lemon verbena tea Peter liked to drink in the evening, pruning the leaves and stalks from the plant on the windowsill. Mike liked the scent of the plant, even liked to rub the leaves between his finger and thumb when Peter was out for a few hours, to feel some essence of his presence that way. Now he could taste and enjoy him in the flesh. Which reminded Mike… He tugged Peter’s tee from his waistband without breaking their kiss, but had to pull away to get the shirt off Peter’s torso and over his head. He blew at Peter’s bangs and finger-combed his hair for him after to settle it.

“Is there any point to that when you’re just going to muss it within minutes?” Peter inquired.

“Oh, hush, you. With your logic.” Mike placed his forefinger against Peter’s lips, grinning when Peter gave it a mock-bite and a real suck. Freeing his finger, he ran his hands down Peter’s shoulders and upper arms, then his chest, catching Peter by surprise when he raked his nails across Peter’s nipples. He off-balanced him again right after, by twisting to push Peter flat on the bed and swing his legs up for him too. Multi-tasking, Mike bent low over him to kiss a heated, open-mouthed trail down his body at the same time as he flicked his jeans undone for him.

‘“Sock it to me,’” came from Peter, making Mike laugh, which made a weird tickle against Peter’s flesh, if his writhing was anything to go by.

"Yeah, 'Goin’ down,’” he replied, quoting more lyrics from the song they were all writing together, for Micky to sing.

“Hep, hep, h— _ohhh_ ,” Peter capped, the last _hep_ turning into a groan as Mike circled the crown of Peter’s soon-erect cock with the tip of his tongue, sucking and teasing to make Peter forget any more wisecracks he might’ve had in mind. No—Mike knew Peter was all his, his mind given over to pure sensation, when Mike sliding his mouth down Peter’s hot, hard length had Peter moaning and spearing his fingers into Mike’s hair.

The pulling at his roots became a scratch into his scalp when he eased Peter’s jeans down enough to slide his hands around to his ass, cupping his taut cheeks…then using them to bring Peter deeper into his mouth, to really deep-throat him. He got in a few good, hard sucks before Peter’s squirm became a wriggle—Peter attempting to wiggle backward.

“Stop,” he panted, Mike halting immediately. “You’re gonna make me come and I feel like taking our time, and together, okay?”

“Whatever you want,” Mike promised him. He pulled away enough to undress Peter, then himself, making a show out of undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one, because he knew Peter dug his hair-roughened chest. Sure enough, Peter was lying back, his arms folded under his head, grooving on the sight, meaning Mike caught him by surprise when he flung himself onto the bed and on top of him.

Peter wrapped him in his arms, and Mike pressed as close to Peter’s warm, naked body as he could. And then there was no time to get maudlin, about how it would never be close enough, or incredulous, that he had the right to be this close to Peter, the man he loved, not when Peter was rolling him over, and Mike was pushing back, trying to get on top, kneading Peter’s ass cheeks as he did so. And then there was no time for any thoughts at all, when their mouths were fused and their cocks sliding together.


	16. Mid January 1967, part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to 70mtt for all her ideas and help with this chapter in particular!  
> If it wasn't for her lovely enthusiasm and suggestions, this verse would have finished long ago, so please give her some appreciation!

Mike fought harder—or Peter fought less—and had Peter under him, his hands on Peter’s shoulders keeping him down, and he got in a few quick and dirty bites and licks at Peter’s nipples, making Peter gasp and buck beneath him, before Peter raised his arms and pushed at Mike’s shoulders. _Together_ , Peter had said, and Mike understood. “Can’t guarantee anything about taking our time though, shotgun,” he informed Peter. “Not when I’m just too dang good at making you come.”

Peter’s smirk and raised eyebrow said what words didn’t, that his mouth on Mike could bring him to orgasm just as quickly, and Mike acknowledged Peter’s restraint and discretion with a sly smile as he swung his body around so Peter could get at his dick. It was as seamless as when they played together, Peter not missing a beat before gripping the base of Mike’s erect cock and taking as much as he could in his mouth…and all the way to the back of his throat.

Jesus! Mike’s body spasmed straightaway in that tight heat, against that clever, flickering tongue, and he took Peter’s cock deep, his stubbled face pressing into Peter’s soft skin making him squirm and buck, which made him thrust deeper, and Mike suck harder. This was part of the unspoken challenge they had, who could take the other deeper or harder or faster, and Mike loved rubbing the tip of his tongue against that extra sensitive spot just under the head of Peter’s dick, making him release pre-cum that Mike scooped from his slit. Mike had his tongue coated in Peter for a few heady seconds, before Peter pulled back a little.

“Together, remember?” Peter’s voice was breathy, and Mike shouldn’t have felt so smug at how near Peter was to the edge, already…but he did. He pulled off a little too, spreading Peter’s pre-cum the length of his dick. Peter read the challenge correctly. “You started first,” he told him, before returning to his task…of making Mike come as quickly as possible.

He was skilled and him jacking Mike root to tip with a practiced hand while cradling his high, hard balls with the other, then using his sinful mouth on Mike’s cockhead had Mike writhing, while never neglecting his work on Peter’s cock. The ease of their give-and-receive went beyond effortless. It felt pre-patterned, _pre-existing_ , somehow. Mike couldn’t never clarify it, not with it being all feeling and not thought. The closest he could come to conceptualizing it was that it had always been there, and they’d just had to find it. It being them, MichaelandPeter. Then Peter licked over the throbbing vein that ran from the base of Mike’s shaft to just under the head, and everything was just pure white-heat and bright-lightning sensation, and no room for reasoning.

As soon as Mike could, he pulled back until he held just the tip of Peter’s cock in his mouth before plunging downward with one long, hard, deliberate stroke all the way to his balls, because that made Peter moan. And Mike loved making Peter moan when Peter was giving him head—the vibrations around Mike’s dick sent tingles down his spine and into his balls. Tonight was no exception—far from it—and Mike surrendered to the blinding climax Peter pulled from him.

He gave in as gladly and eagerly as he swallowed down Peter’s release, having to hold Peter’s hips against the bed when he thrust too forcefully when he spasmed. He made sure he held Peter in his mouth until he’d wrung the last drop from him and his body finally relaxed.

Mike wanted to curl up into Peter’s warm, soft and sated body where he lay, but he was the wrong way round anyway, so forced himself to swing his legs to the floor and go get a washcloth from the tiny bathroom. Peter submitted to being cleaned up, having the sweat that had sheened his body wiped off, and Mike was diving in beside him in seconds, the right way around now to hold him close…and be held. Peter won this tussle, and Mike settled his head on Peter’s chest. He liked being as close as this after he’d fucked or blown Peter, to hear his heartbeat power down to normal, after Mike had made it race.

Peter levered Mike’s head up enough to rub his nose down Mike’s, sliding it off the tip. When Mike lowered his head again, Peter stuck his nose in Mike’s ear, making his silky hair fall over them both and Mike shiver from the myriad sensations.

“You goof!” he exclaimed, inching away to freedom.

“No, _your_ goof,” Peter corrected.

“No, my angel.” Mike moved so his head was beside Peter’s on the pillow. _My promised._ He knew Peter had caught that. It didn’t need Peter’s quiet, “Yes,” to assure him, but he loved it anyway. And it was soon, the ceremony they were planning, to mark six months of their…what? Relationship? Love? Commitment? None fitted exactly. Suddenly Peter laughed, making Mike jump. “What, babe?”

“Oh, just remembering your face, when Mrs. Dolenz was asking me about me being a vegetarian, and if I didn’t eat meat or fish, what was my protein source?”

“My face? Hardly surprising, when I was scared about what you were gonna reply, with you staring at me like that!” Mike protested. “You even licked your lips, babe! And what you did reply, still staring at me, and said _nuts_? Is it any surprise I choked?”

Murmuring, ‘Everybody loves a nut,”’ Peter burrowed into position.

Adding, ‘“The whole world loves a weirdo,’” Mike followed his example. He was almost asleep, when he recalled the look on _their_ nut’s, Micky’s, face when they were all going off to bed. It hadn’t been what Mike would call newly wedded bliss. He remembered he hadn’t spoken to Micky about things. He hadn’t spoken to Peter about them either. _Tomorrow first thing._ He’d make Peter understand the situation. Unless things were okay by then…

Holding Peter’s hand, Mike slept.

***

Things weren’t okay, by the next morning, Mike didn’t think. And not just because Toby was still there. And still on the phone. Mike wasn’t quite that selfish. He hoped. No, it was more because Micky’s squashed-in face looked more sunken than it used to, as it had since he and Toby—and Mike and Peter—had traveled back from New York and it became clear Toby was now a fixture.

Clear to Micky too: he’d not only stood frozen instead of carrying Toby over the threshold, but had even backed away a little…without realizing, Mike felt. Mike didn’t exactly know why Micky had entered into marriage with Toby, but couldn’t help feeling that Micky’s desire for what he and Peter had had a fair amount to do with it. And if so, typical Micky—he’d gone the wrong way about getting it. Enough was enough. They’d would get to the bottom of things.

Well, he would. Peter had a busy day, helping deal with the aftermath of the Save Our Sunset Strip protest that had taken place last week, just as he’d helped organize it. It had been a very special day for him and Peter—not that either of them had seen much of the protest—and he’d left early to get a head start. Mike squirmed, fighting the combined memories of that occasion and the word ‘head.’

“Try her?” Micky was suggesting, when Toby put the phone down and scored a line through another name on her pad. “Tamara’s a happening chick.”

“What’s going on?” Mike inquired when Micky stood from crouching down next to Toby.

Micky tugged him over to the kitchen to answer. “Toby was speaking to Amanda earlier, and Amanda’s writing about her military wives’ supper club, in her next article, so Toby wants to arrange a hip and happening groovy chicks’ hoedown, to write about and take photos of, for her column. Only…”

“Right.” Mike poured himself a coffee. “Sounds…wait. Only…what? Micky?”

“Only…she can’t round up enough far-out chicks, so she’s gonna have to…fudge things a little.”

“Fake them, you mean.” Mike took a huge gulp of his drink and topped his mug up. He’d need the caffeine. “Like, get some of her girlfriends to dress in psycho-jello clothes and pretend she has a circle of hippie-chic chicks?”

“Not quite.” Micky sighed and stood aside for Davy to push between them for the stove top and kettle and tea. “She doesn’t really have many girlfriends, and she needs this hoedown really soon, like this morning, so she’s gonna have us four, well…”

“Dress up as four birds in way-out gear, long wigs and high-heeled shoes?” Davy turned from the stove, pointing at Micky around the tea cannister. “Problem with that, mate, is you’re bound to fall over, wearing stilettos and a tarty dress, slutty wig on, your face plastered in makeup, and you know what that’ll be?”

“What?” Micky whispered.

“Not so much a hoedown as a ho down!” Davy slapped his thigh with his free hand, laughing hard enough to shake the loose tea from its container. “And that’s me first thing in the morning, without so much as a cuppa!” he gloated.

“I am _not_ putting on a dress and wig and pretending to be some rock star’s girlfriend at a rock stars’ girlfriends’ gathering, if there even was such a thing!” Mike yelped. He slapped the coffeepot down and decided to put his foot down too. This was it. The moment. “Micky, Davy, come with me.”

He ignored Micky’s “But I gotta help Toby!” and Davy’s, “Believe me, mate, no one can help Toby,” and his, “Hey, this is my room!” to shoulder and hip push them both into the downstairs bedroom. He finished off his coffee in one final gulp and placed the mug down with enough of a hard, deliberate _clunk_ to enough to have Micky looking at him.

“Micky, sit down.” Mike nodded for Micky to sit on the room’s one chair. He studied him. His almond eyes were shadowed and the bags under them heavy. “You ain’t happy with Toby, are you?” Yeah, Mike only knew one way to get to a destination—the direct route. 

“Mike? What are you saying? What do you— I don’t— No,” Micky finished on a shamed mutter, his faux-indignation and incomprehension spluttering to a stop like a spent Catherine wheel.

“Care to expand on that?” Mike asked.

“No, I ain’t happy with Toby,” Micky replied, as if talking to a simpleton, looking from him to Davy.

Okaayy. “Well, I can understand that you proposed by accident— No. You know what? I can’t.” Mike shook his head.

“I told you! And it’s Davy’s fault.” Micky threw him a glare. “Toby’d been real down about Amanda and Harley and all that love-at-first-sight thing, then she was all fizzing with excitement about Davy was gonna be calling her up or something. And we were at the mall Christmas shopping and I might have very briefly been a werewolf and a jewelry display sort of got knocked over. I was trying to help pick it up, like, on my hands and knees, and passing the things back up, right?”

“Riiigghht?” Mike looked at Davy and saw he was as lost as him.

“And she looked down at me, on my knees with this jewelry box in my hands and just squealed! It hurt my ears, Mike! Then she screamed Davy had told her he’d be giving her a ring, and so had that made me realize things? So I nodded, ’cause that’s easier than asking her what she means, and tried to ask her to pass the box up to the counter assistant. But I only got as far as holding out the box and saying ‘Would you’ when she shrieked again and yelled ‘YES! Yes I will! YES!’”

“But…” Mike rubbed his temples. His Toby headaches came when interacting with Micky now. “Davy, you weren’t gonna propose to Toby, were you?”

“NO! No I wasn’t! NO!” shrieked Davy as loudly as the chick in question. “I was on the phone to her a lot, then, to cheer her up, remember? So she knew I’d be phoning her, calling her, but—”

“But you don’t say ‘call’, on the phone, do you? Where you come from, you say ‘ring’.” Mike swallowed.

“Yeah, so I said I’d be giving her a ring later, and… _Oh._ ” His face screwed up in realization, Davy grabbed Mike’s hand, to make him rub _his_ temple for him too. “And she thought that I…”

“And Micky too.” Mike added. His headache spreading, he took his hand back and rubbed his forehead instead.

“See! It’s all _his_ fault!” Micky folded his arms.

“Hardly, you nutjob! Why couldn’t you just say it wasn’t what she thought?” Mike demanded. “That the ring in the box wasn’t—”

“Tie clip.”

“What?”

“In the box. Not a ring. A tie pin thing.”

“A _tie bar_? You proposed with a bloody _tie bar_?” burst from Davy as gales of laughter wracked him.

“Hey, it was real gold, with a small diam— I _didn’t_ propose! Not on purpose!” Micky hissed. “I just couldn’t break it to her. Break her heart.”

“Couldn’t make her understand, more like.” Davy wiped his eyes.

Mike didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or slap Micky upside the head. His hand was itching to do the latter, though. “And after?”

“Mike!” Micky looked coy. “Do you _really_ want to know what happened in the changing room after?”

“The reason we’re all banned from the store? No. Not really.” Mike sat on the edge of the bed. “But you got Toby to keep quiet about it?” Because they hadn't heard a peep about it before they’d gone away for Christmas. “What d’you do, tell it was more romantic to keep it a secret?”

“Then hope she forgot about it, or met someone else?” Davy added, sitting next to Mike.

“No! Yes. A bit,” Micky conceded.

“But you went through with a wedding?” This was what Mike didn’t get.

Micky looked down at his shoes. “Toby wasn’t the only one bummed about Amanda being all glowing with love and talking about Harley nonstop, you know.”

“But were you pissed off about losing Amanda, seeing as she kicked you to the kerb, or losing Harley, seeing as you were engaged to him first?” Davy asked.

“Davy! Not helping!” Mike snapped. Damn. Now he’d be wondering that too. He glared at the lousy Limey, who gave a cheeky shrug.

“And then they had that big engagement celebration, on Christmas Eve with her family coming here to meet his. We missed it…”

Yeah, they’d been at Peter’s. Toby must have gone, though.

“And all the talk was about the biiiggg New Year’s Day wedding, back home in London. So I said wouldn’t it be neat and show Amanda if we got married first, before she did, meaning just in general, like, and…Toby remembered we were engaged, and ran with it and arranged it for New Year’s Eve.” He shrugged.

“At the zoo.” This was another thing Mike didn’t get.

“At the zoo,” Micky agreed, a smile lighting up his face. He’d obviously enjoyed that bit.

“At the zoo.” Davy shook his head. “I suppose that was nice of Toby, picking a place you like so much…”

“Yeah,” Micky agreed, but Mike waited for the sting, or zinger…

“And where your extended family hangs out.”

“Yeah—what?”

“I didn’t know you could get hitched there, have themed weddings where even the ordained bloke marrying you got dressed in costume. But, well, things are different this side of the pond, I guess,” Davy continued, before Micky could retaliate.

“And we’re banned from the zoo, now, as well, right?” Mike queried.

“No, Mikey! As if.” Micky scoffed. “Just the primates bit.”

“Got it.” Mike felt better informed, if none the wiser. “And I know you felt sorry for her, with her parents kicking her out and wanting to sell the house after that movie thing.”

“How was she to know the movies she hired the place out for them to shoot scenes there weren’t real James Bond sequels, huh?” Micky bristled.

“The titles?” Davy rolled his eyes. “ _Thunderballs?_ _Cold Finger_? _You Only—_ ”

“Don’t say it,” Mike begged.

“ _Lick Twice_?” Davy finished. It sounded worse in his accent.

“Look, I got a bit swept away by the whole thing,” Micky confessed. “I got blitzed on the plane, with the free booze, and Toby met me at the airport and she’d got all this really good dope for Christmas because of a mix-up with the name and so she split that with me and took me straight to the zoo, and so…”

“You know what they say: Marry in waste-d, repent forever.” Davy patted Micky.

Mike regarded him. “Not one of your best there, kid.”

“Yeah. I need my cup of tea.” Davy got to his feet, but when a loud bang sounded from the kitchen, jerked his thumb at Micky, to usher him out of the room first and deal with it.

“Well, l’il biscuit, guess this whacky adventure is just us two.” Mike held out his hand to Davy.

“Huh, yeah.” Davy shook it. “We don’t get many of these together, do we? So, plan, brains?”

“Brains? Oh, because you’re the looks. Got it.” Yeah, this morning was proving to be a two-coffee day. “Well, in everything there’s a professional and a personal angle, right?”

He stopped for Micky to stick his head around the door and tell them he was taking Toby to lie down on the sundeck with rubber flippers on her feet to counteract the electric shock she’d just gotten. Oh, and that the power was out, but they weren’t to worry, he’d fix it.

“As long as the gas is working…” Davy beelined for the stove and his tea. “Go on?”

“And I’ve tried the professional. Toby wants to be here because it’s all a source of material, right? Well, I tried to make her see that stories describing how she lives with four guys might not be the best thing to write about…” Mike blinked at the exploded, still fritzing and sparking coffeepot and, resigned, reached for a cloth to clean the mess.

He’d attempted to clue Toby in on what it seemed like, a young chick living with four equally young musicians. “How d’you think it makes you look?” he’d asked.

“Groovy!” she’d replied, as if the weird thought-transference thing that happened among the four of them was spreading to her…only spreading wrongly, Toby-style, because Mike _had_ been thinking of another thing that a chick sharing a house with an all-guy band might make Toby seem, and it _did_ rhyme with groovy.

“Right. So we go for the personal.” Davy took a huge slurp of tea, his eyes closed in pleasure. “Oh, and before you suggest it, it’ll do no good to tell Toby how appalling Micky is. Like, his table manners: elbows on the table, chewing with his mouth open…not using a knife and fork. Or his hygiene, like thinking that standing outside in the rain counts as a shower _and_ washing his clothes, or thinking eating mint candy equals brushing his teeth.”

“Why won’t that work?” Mike asked.

“Because I’ve been telling her and all the birds in in Beechwood that for years.” Davy opened his eyes. “We have to think bigger picture. Like, what makes a bird leave?”

“In your case, when they find out they’re one of a whole flock.” Mike rinsed out the cloth. “Seems chicks hate a guy tomcatting around. Imagine that.”

“Won’t work—Micky’s not seeing anyone else. There’s no other women on the horizon…” Davy watched Micky sashay in from the sundeck, swinging his hips and pouting his lips to music only he could hear. “Well, there might be _one_ woman… _and_ close at hand…” He headed Micky off and went into the No-Room wardrobe. “One ‘lady’—and I use the term loosely, as loose as she is, who could show up here and give Toby the low-down—again using the term aptly—and dirty—word chosen on purpose—on Micky, make her leave in disgust…”

“Who— _Oh!_ ” Mike nodded at the slutty-looking dress and stripper heels Davy was pulling free.

“No,” burst from Micky. “She’s—I— You’ve never seen her!”

“Oh, haven’t we?” Davy asked, smirking for England.

“No!” Micky yelped. “If I did do that, which I didn’t, I don’t anymore! Not that I ever did!”

“Don’t care.” Davy was an unfeeling little son-of-a-gun. “Time to bring her out of retirement to do your dirty work.” And bossy with it.

Wailing, “You don’t understand!” Micky was forced into the closet and the shimmering little dress pushed in with him.

“ _Into_ the closet?” Mike mused. “Shouldn’t that be out of?”

“It will be. It is.” Davy staggered a little at Micky’s changed appearance when the door opened a second later, and would have backed into Mike, if Mike hadn’t staggered farther back himself. Davy recovered quickly, and tsked. “Of course you went with the glittering turquoise eyeshadow. So obvious.” He signaled to Micky to turn around. “Breathe in,” he ordered, zipping the dress up, then spun Micky around again.

Mike was glad Davy was in charge, because he was frozen, seeing this so close. Viewing it at a distance on a stage gyrating to music was one thing, glimpsing it parading along a wooden catwalk between rows of tables another, even batting his eyelashes and twirling a fan while seated at a table with one of the club’s clients one more—and yeah, they’d seen all those things—but this, up close and _very_ personal was outtasite. Well, Mike wished it was. _Way_ out of sight.

“Toby?” Davy called. “This, erm, lady’s just arrived and she’s got something to tell you.”

“A lady? Come to see me?” Toby came in from the sundeck and Davy pulled Mike into the No-Room, leaving the door ajar enough to see and hear, Davy kneeling and Mike standing over him.

“Go on!” hissed Davy, and Micky cleared his throat then opened his mouth—

“ _Roxy?_ Hi!” Toby cried, rushing up. “Do you remember me, Toby? From my bachelorette party at All Girls, All Day the other week? Wasn’t that _fun_! Sorry again that I didn’t realize it was a house of strip —I’d heard the name and I just thought it was a place girls hung out all day, like a day spa, you know? I mean, I guess that’s why you looked so horrified when I came in, but it worked out all right, huh?”

“Oh f—”

“For heaven’s sake,” Mike finished for Davy, although he doubted heaven had anything to do with this.

“It was a shame Micky couldn’t come, that there was no answer when I called him. Hey, he should be here somewhere and you can meet him! You know, I liked your routine. I’ve been practicing it. Oh, excuse me…”

She dashed off to answer the ringing phone and Micky slinked inside the No-Room to face his two hands-on-hips, frowns-on-faces roommates. They stood either side of the cheval mirror, and Micky indicated his Roxy-fied reflection, in between them.

“I couldn’t tell her then and I can’t tell her now. Guys _, come on!_ ” he pleaded. “It’d be like kicking a puppy.”

“You know where we went wrong?” Mike asked, exasperated. “Sending a boy to do a woman’s job. Task like this needs a _real_ man. And Davy, I’ll need your Max Factor Clear Red lipstick.”

“Hold on a second there, Elizabeth Taylor, because I don’t think so.” Davy crossed his arms. “The Rose Red’s best for blondes…”

Because blonde Mike was, a few minutes later, sneaking out of the house, cursing when his long green dress got snagged on a briar, and pushing open the front door. “Hello?” he called. “Oh, hi there, peasant…I mean, person. I’m, erm, Gwen. Is Micky in?”

“Oh, he’s…” Toby stood from the huge red pillow on the floor next to the telephone on its green box—Toby had painted the phone yellow, so the three-part composition of pillow, phone and box looked like a set of traffic lights—and peered around. “Not here. Huh. He was. He might be on the roof. He spends a lot of time up there. I’ve got a BB gun, if you want me to—”

“No, no,” Mike replied, remembering to raise his pitch on the second one. He hoped it would stay there. He tugged on one of his long blonde bunches of hair to straighten up his wig. “Don’t shoot him down on my account.”

“Oh, you’re one of his sisters, right?” Toby clicked her fingers. “With the funny name… Chocolate or Champagne, or something?”

“Coco,” Mike corrected.

“Oh yes. I remember now. We’ve met.”

“No no. I—”

“Yes. We. Have. At dinner, the other night. And before. A. Few. Times.” Toby spoke slowly and loudly, as though Mike were simple. She came right up to him.

“No, I mean, no, I’m not his sister. I’m Gwen. Gwen…Arcadian.” Oh, he hated himself. “I’m Micky’s, heh, princess. On the side.” Hated himself _a lot_. “I’m a groovy chick and we’ve been…intimate. Very intimate. On several occasions. Right here in this house, most of ’em.” And he’d added that _why_?

Toby looked concerned. It looked wrong on her usually open-mouthed face, but Mike kept going, trying to ignore the gesticulating coming from behind Toby, from the half-open doorway of the No-Room. He didn’t have a clue what Micky was trying to signal, anyway. From the way his body moved, he looked like he was on the rocking floor section, then in the revolving barrel bit, of the Fun House from the carnival, and then feeling the size and shape of two huge helium balloons at a stall? Mike ripped his gaze away.

“We went further on each occasion,” he announced, swinging his necklace. “From touching to fondling, and from first base to last. I taught him everything he knows. And he was a willing and able pupil.” And he sounded…like an old schoolmarm. He only hoped Toby didn’t want to see reports or grade cards as evidence. “Yes siree Bob,” he added, for emphasis, because with the way things were going, why the hell not?

“Mike,” Toby said at last. “I’m not judging, okay? I understand. Well, not the dress.” She waved a hand up and down. “Because with your legs, you could and should wear a miniskirt. You can take one of mine if you like. Any, except the one with the chinchilla trim.”

“Now look, buster—” Mike tried.

“I mean, I get it about Micky. He’s hip and cool and—”

“Trampy and up for anything,” came on a Davy cough from the closet.

“But I think _this_ is something you should discuss with Peter, Mike.” Toby pushed him to sit down on the couch. “I know it’s tough, so have you ever considered couple’s counselling? There’s a woman everyone’s going to. Even my parents. You know that woman on the TV?”

It flicked itself on to her right, showing Dr. Lorene Sisters smirking and smoking a cigar.

“Yeah, her.” Toby pointed. “Well, not her. Her sister, Laura. I’m thinking of taking Micky to see her. She’s—”

It was at that point that Mike fled, and locked himself in the garage. “She doesn’t recognize her own husband in drag, but she knows it’s me?” he raged when the other two joined him, Davy bearing makeup remover and Micky cotton wool balls. “How?”

“I guess I just make the better chick,” Micky replied.

“Erm, you’ll find I do, actually.” Davy scowled.

“And I think you’ll find we’re going off the point here!” Mike snatched his wig off and ruffled up his real hair. “Mick, ya gotta go talk to her parents and tell ’em it ain’t working out and that Toby’s gotta move back home with them again. Okay?”

“ _Mike!_ ” Micky squealed.

“You heard me, buster.”

“ _Davy!_ ” Micky appealed.

“Sorry, Mick.” Davy patted his shoulder. “You know the rules—the princess’ word is law.”


	17. Mid January 1967, part three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very silly indeed.

“Well, I can’t go right now. I didn’t eat breakfast yet!” Micky snapped his fingers in mock regret. “Don’t want my stomach gurgling while I’m trying to persuade Mr. and Mrs. Willis to take their daughter back, now do I?”

“True.” Mike nodded, then knocked his fist into the drawer of a small, slim metal cabinet that was tucked away at the back, making it spring out. “Which is why we got emergency Pop Tarts.”

“Ooh, strawberry! But they’re sealed in foil…” He trailed off as Mike slid his utility knife from his pocket and slit the package open. “Well, you know, I can’t eat ’em cold.”

“I know.” Mike kicked at the bottom door of the cabinet, making it slide back to reveal an electric toaster that he plugged in.

“But I can’t eat those—”

“Without soda, yeah.” Mike nudged his elbow into another drawer to make it open and pulled a bottle of Coke free.

Micky opened his mouth to speak but Mike, his glare on Micky, selected another tool from his penknife and flicked the top of the glass bottle off, handing the bottle to Micky after. “Need a cup?” he asked. Micky shook his head.

“Should we,” Davy said after a pause, “ask why you have food and drink supplies in here?”

“…best not,” Mike concluded, after an equally long pause.

“Oh, I’m not wearing a tie!” Micky exclaimed through his mouthful of pastry and filling, patting at his neck. “Appearing before your father-in-law, trying to offload his daughter back onto him bare-necked, that’s—”

“Not a problem.” Mike reached around the side of the cabinet and flipped one free of a hook there. “Neutral color, too.” He slotted it inside Micky’s collar.

“Let me.” Davy jumped onto a low stool and did the honors. “Definitely not asking you why this is here,” he commented.

“Very wise.” Mike nodded.

“Or what it’s been used for,” Davy muttered. “Now, tempted as I am to give you a Pratt knot…” Davy looped one length of the tie over the other around Micky’s neck. “I’m giving you a Full Windsor. It’s best suited—no pun intended—for business meetings and weddings, so should work for a meeting about a wedding, right?”

“Damn right,” Mike agreed, and he and Davy marched Micky out.

“Guys, I’ve tried before, a couple of times, to say something to the Willises, since they came back to live in Beechwood, about stuff not working out,” Micky confessed. “But I always get derailed, you know? Something else comes up?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Davy flicked his thumb and forefinger against Micky’s shiny gold wristwatch and rapped his knuckles on the new Ford Mustang in the drive.

“Hey, watch the paintwork!” Micky protested, breathing on the hood of his car and wiping it.

“Just stay strong,” Mike advised.

“This time,” Davy added.

“I will.” Micky took a deep breath, pulled his shoulders back, and set off.

Davy watched Micky’s figure recede into the distance. “Think he’ll do it?”

“Aw, c’mon, Davy!” Mike protested. “You heard him! You saw him! He’s left, gone over there…”

Davy eyed him. “So that’s a no.”

“Yeah. A big fat one.” Mike couldn’t fool himself, much as he wanted to.

“Yeah, me neither. And I wasted a Full Windsor on him. I’m a fool to meself.” Davy shook his head. “Bet he’s trying to shake ’em down for an upgrade to a Corvette.”

Mike privately thought Micky was holding out for a VW Microbus, but said nothing as he went about his morning. The rattling noise coming from outside a little later had both him and Davy, both of them hanging around the den, raising their eyebrows. As one, they rushed behind the front door to hide when it started to open and Micky tried to sneak in, pushing a wheeled trolley.

“A _TV_?” Mike leaped out and pointed at the big box with a big bow on it. “They gave you a goddamn new _TV_? Micky, you can’t treat marriage like, like a game show with consolation prizes!”

“He’s right, Micky. You can’t. Especially when yours is more like a _freak_ show with _constant surprises_!” Davy was on top form—he’d had a whole pot of tea, two slices of toast with Marmite, and a handful of custard creams.

“It’s not _just_ a TV, Mike,” Micky wheedled, pulling the cardboard box off the set. “It’s a twenty-two-inch color Zenith Plus…with a clicker!”

“Micky, I don’t care how— _How_ big?”

“Twenty-two inches.” Micky patted it.

“And you said…” Mike came closer.

“Color. Sure did.”

“No!” Mike tore himself away. “That’s not the point! Is it, Davy?”

“A _clicker_ , Mike, _a_ _clicker_!” Davy stroked the squat rectangular Space Command remote device, tears in his eyes.

“Davy! We’re supposed to be a team on this!” Mike yelped.

“Look, maybe things with Toby, with them being married or whatever, they’re not so bad, right?” Davy tried a smile. “Like, not so— _Arrggghh!_ ”

He pointed with a shaky hand and Mike followed the direction of Davy’s fingers. He was glad he managed to strangle the squeal that wanted to leap from his throat…at the sight of Toby coming in from the deck…heavily pregnant.

“How?” Mike cried. “Don’t the normal laws of, I don’t know, biology, or, or, _time_ apply to her?”

“Hey, guys.” Toby had one hand in the small of her back, and waved with the other. “What do you think about twins?” She caught up a pillow from the couch and stuffed it up her T-shirt…to join the one already there. But Micky didn’t see that—the bang that had sounded after the word ‘twins’ had been him hitting the floor when he’d fainted.

“I bet she doesn’t know how babies are made!” Mike muttered to Davy. “You’d better go explain it and right now.”

“Oh, no. You,” Davy countered, folding his arms across his chest.

“Dammit! Fingers?” Mike countered-countered…and lost. Of course. He pulled in a deep breath. “Pass me the reference book.” His hand sank under the weight of the thick, heavy red tome Davy slapped into it. “ _Debrett’s Peerage and titles of Courtesy_?” Mike read the gold title. “That’s your idea of a reference book?”

“I’m sorry! At times of stress I get very English!” Davy explained. He passed over their medical encyclopedia but Mike needed only the briefest scan of the index to see it probably didn’t cover this. It would need an entire section for Toby. Hell, she would fill an entire _book_ all on her own.

“Hey, Toby.” Mike kept his tone low so as not to scare her. “What are you doing?” He risked pointing at her stomach. “With the pillows up your top?” he added, remembering to be as clear and unambiguous as possible when asking Toby a question, or trying to communicate anything at all to her really.

“Seeing how it would look.” She took another glance in the wall mirror.

“Because…”

“Amanda called.”

“Uh-huh?” Davy encouraged. Mike expected him to be holding out a slice of carrot on his palm, like he was trying to calm down a horse. “What did you talk about?”

“She said she wants a baby right away.”

“Right.” Mike thought he could see…that pregnancy and young motherhood would provide a lot of fodder for articles and stories.

“So I’m thinking we—Micky and I—could pipe the pot again, like with the wedding.”

“You mean pip them to the post,” Mike corrected, then thought back to Micky’s words about Toby having got a load of dope for Christmas by mistake. “Yeah, what you said makes more sense. Go on?”

“And ours would be so much cuter than Amanda’s! I mean, _Harley_?” She pulled a face. “So, if you could help me bring Micky round, we could go and— Ooh, triplets! My aunt’s got three children!”

“Not altogether,” Mike threw in.

“Yeah they are. They all live at home with her and my uncle.” Toby stood sideways on and shoved another pillow under her straining top. Mike could only hope she’d treat any actual babies a little gentler.

“Stand back. I’ve got this.” Davy swung the bucket. “One drummer boy special coming up…” He sloshed the liquid over the supine Micky.

Micky sat up and shook himself. “That…was water, right?” he asked.

“Yeeeaaah,” Davy replied, his half-shrug saying _mostly_.

“Did you catch that?” Mike nodded toward Toby. “That she wants to start trying for a baby? Or two? Oh God, she’s one of twins, so they run in the family! And with the way she gets into mix-up after mix-up, she…they…we…” He couldn’t go on.

“Mikey, Mikey, Mikey.” Micky got to his feet and patted the on-his-way-to-hysterical Mike with a damp hand. “There’s no need to worry, because I had a brilliant idea!”

“Oh, jumping Jehoshaphat.” Mike tried to breathe as deeply as he could, but it still sounded like a dog panting on a hot June day.

“Not just now. I mean. I’ve been working on a plan. Plan A. A for awesome. Amazing. A—”

“And?” Davy interrupted, swinging his bucket menacingly.

“And all ya gotta do is stall Toby while I put the finishing touches to it. Send her on an errand.” Micky drew himself up. “I need to get to my lab.”

“Your la— Oh, what is this, your lab?” Mike inquired. Then remembered. “Oh yeah.”

“Lab and studio apartment,” Davy added.

Yeah, Micky—and Toby—had their own room…in the basement. When they’d all be discussing how to fit everyone in and where, with Davy due back from England after the New Year, Micky had said he and Toby could live in the basement.

“ _Basement?_ ” Mike and Peter had echoed. “There’s a _basement_?”

“Of course!” Micky had looked from one to the other. “Where do you think I have my lab?”

“ _Lab?_ ” Mike and Peter had echoed. “You have a _lab_?”

He’d looked shifty. But yep, there was a long if narrow space beneath the pad, with a few small windows, under the rocks that propped up the sundeck. The pad’s layout made no sense, but…

“Mike?” prompted Micky, now, in the present, his white coat on and his hands full of gauges and dials, jerking his head at Toby before slinking off.

“Mike…” Davy started.

“Later, l’il biscuit. Toby…we’re expecting a phone call, and we’re not sure the phone’s working, so need to test it.” Mike threw a shrug at Davy. He wasn’t the best at improvising. “Could ya go to the Purdeys’ and we’ll call you there?”

“The Purdeys’?” Toby wrinkled her nose. “You know I don’t like how she’s always getting her pussy out everywhere and playing with it, In public too.”

“Milly’s,” Mike amended.

“Mike,” Davy whispered.

“I think she’s confused in the head, Mike. She knitted me a muffler.”

“That’s nice?”

“And wound it around my mouth, to muffle me?” Toby explained.

“Ah. The Ferreiras’,” Mike said, through gritted teeth.

“ _Aber_ , Mike, _mein Deutsch ist nicht sehr gut_ ,” Toby lamented.

About to ask why the hell her German being weak mattered, with the family being Portuguese, Mike caught Davy’s head shake and reined himself in. “Nyles’,” was his final offer.

“Oh, sure! I got my key on me.” Toby patted her pocket.

“Well, that’s thinking ahead,” Mike praised. “But we’ll be here.”

“No, I mean for Nyles’.” Toby produced it. “In case he’s not answering.”

“Leave it,” Davy advised as Mike opened his mouth. Toby trotted off. Davy tugged Mike’s sleeve. “Mike, Micky—”

A loud bang from under their feet almost knocked them over.

“What in tarnation?” Mike stared down as though he could see through the floor.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Micky’s building a time machine in his lab-apartment!” Davy said. “His brilliant idea’s to go back in time to before he took up with Toby!”

“But that’s… He… Davy? _Davy!_ ”

The little devil was at the calendar, removing it from its hook…and digging around in the bureau drawer…where the old, out of date ones were…

“Davy, no!” Mike stood between him and his laden hand reaching for the hook. “That’s cruel.” A second bang from below thudded him into the wall, bumping his head.

“I bloody know it is.” Davy rubbed at his ears. They were sensitive to loud…bangs.

Visions of payback danced in Mike’s head, but he shook it, although not as firmly as he should have. “No. Peter—”

“Isn’t here.” Davy raised an eyebrow, jumping as sizzles and flashes lit up the room and the floor under them turned hot, making them leap from foot to foot.

Fuck it. The nutjob had it coming. Mike grabbed the calendar and hung it on the hook, turning it to January. He beat Davy in the race for the No-Room, where they scrambled into older clothes and where Mike slapped a wool hat over his now-longer hair. “Your hair!” he panted, pointing at Davy’s head. “It’s different.”

Davy snatched up a small towel and made a turban over his head. That it was the towel he used for that exact purpose when he applied his monthly cream conditioning treatment was more luck than anything else, and typical of Davy, Mike felt.

“Follow my lead.” Davy headed for the kitchen, where the calendar now announced it was January…1966. “Pick up your cues, okay?”

“I ain’t doing some song and dance routine here, man,” Mike objected.

“Aren’t you, Mike? Aren’t you?” was all Davy had time for before the front door creaked open and footsteps sounded. The steps down into the basement were in the garage and there was no connection from the garage to the kitchen, the back door of the garage leading out to the side of the house. “So, another half-arsed date with Bea tonight, is it?”

“Huh?” Davy’s question baffled Mike, and it took Davy tapping the calendar to clue him in. “Half-arsed?” he repeated, pronouncing it like Davy did. _Harf-ar-ssd_. “What’s that supposed to mean? And I ain’t just talking about your accent.”

“I mean, will you be whisking her out from her kiosk and a few yards along the mall into The Hive? Because you want to convince the manager to give us a gig there and think having a sexy bird along’ll soften him up?”

“Well, I…” Mike ransacked his memory banks. “Yeah, actually. I reckon it’s working too. I really think we’ll get a few slots there, man!”

“Hmm.” Davy rootled around in the icebox, trying to peer behind him under his arm, without being seen doing so. “That the only reason you’re taking her out?”

“And what other reasons would there be, apart from the usual?” Mike listened hard and caught the shuffle of Micky backing away and, he thought, a gasped intake of breath.

“Oh, I dunno. Competition?” Davy hip-slammed the icebox door closed.

“What, think I’m joining in the stupid bet you and Mick got goin’, who can get the most dates in a month? Only a fool’d take you on, boy, and my momma didn’t raise herself no chump!” Okay—seemed he went extra Southern when playacting. Good to know.

“Huh, I know. But I think Micky agreed to it to spur him on. Like when you join a gym and you force yourself to go, ’cause you’d paid the fee, dig?” Davy chuckled. “Sorry—just thinking of him trying to chat up Candy, in the mall? He gets so flustered, it’s painful, man!”

“Yeah. I remember when he went up to her when she bent over in her little store uniform, that jelly-bean mini-dress, making that display, and he said ‘Oh! Good & Plenty! I like!’” Mike admitted. Micky hadn’t even been making a joke. Red-faced, he’d bolted from Candy Kisses, shouting that he’d only come in to see if she had extra-big Bazookas as he ran.

“Yeah. Last time when he was at the pick-n-mix, she asked if he needed help and he said no, he was fine, he’d got sour balls and a smooth liquorice stick and was really looking for a Big Turk, oh, but if she had any Mounds, he’d settle for those and—” Davy was laughing too much to go on.

“Ouch. What did she say?” Mike wondered how Micky was holding himself back over there.

“Oh, that she thought he was more a Whoopers kinda guy—malted milk balls with creamy filling—” Davy spluttered again. “Hang on, when _was_ the last time Mick had a date?”

“Oh, been a while, yeah. Guess it’s a bit of a dry patch,” Mike said.

“Mike, it’s the size of the Gobi Desert!” Davy was enjoying himself.

“Least you didn’t say the Sahara.” Mike was too.

“Give it another month…” Davy shook his head. “But I don’t mean competition because of me. Look, sit down.” Davy swung a chair around from the table and pushed it into the back of Mike’s knees so he collapsed into it, bringing him down to Davy’s height. Davy narrowed his eyes and jerked his head a little, in the direction in which Micky must be, but Mick had no idea what Davy was trying to convey.

“Competing with Peter. And don’t say it rhymes.” Davy raised a finger. “I didn’t wanna ever have to have this talk with you, but seems it’s due. Huh. That rhymes an’ all.”

That squeak noise was definitely Micky creeping closer, the slight _scritch_ him moving the armchair as he ducked down behind it, and the gulp him trying not to breathe, in case it interfered with his hearing. Or broke the spell. Or the space-time continuum. Oh, this was cruel. But felt so damn good.

“Last month, on the Festive LA tour we were on—” Davy kindly paused for Micky’s gasp, and even more kindly ignored it. “You were always eyeballing Peter when he was with Tisha. Now, I know you’re not prejudiced, so can’t have been the race mixing was bothering you about him and her getting it on. And you’ve said you don’t have hang-ups about sex, or swinging, or anything like that, so it wasn’t the threesomes with Tisha and Leona that got you uptight, right?”

“ _What?_ ” burst from Mike, covering Micky’s identical exclamation, stifled as if he’d clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Uptight, right. I should be writing these down.” Davy shook his head then returned to his task. “And you make a face like you’re sucking a lemon whenever he mentions Valerie. And when they talk on the phone, or he goes out to meet her, like he is today, your face…well, let’s just say you ain’t got a lemon stuck in your _mouth_.”

Mike clenched reflexively, shifting on the chair. Davy was hitting home. And not finished yet.

“And I reckon you came onto Bea to stop Peter doing it. So we gonna get to the bottom of—ooh, I’m good—what’s bugging you about Peter getting with birds?”

“Davy…” Mike realized he had no idea how to finish that sentence, and would have had even less idea in January 1966. This was…personal. He held up a hand. Davy understood and switched tacks slightly.

“’Cause I’m thinking that maybe if you went out and got laid, you’d be a bit looser about the whole thing, man.”

“Hey, I get plenty!” Mike protested. “Good and plenty, even. I hook up.”

“What, you got a hook-up buddy, for when you’re between birds, like me and Toby?”

 _Oooh._ That had to hurt. “Yeah. There’s a dive bar I go to when I wanna get some real quick and easy. There’s a few loose chicks there who like to, erm, get their freak on. And I got some _real_ specific itches I need scratched from time to time.”

“ _I knew it!_ ” Micky yelled, arriving in their midst in a huge leap, knocking the armchair over in his haste and pointing at Mike. “Well, not in the sense of knowing what or where or how, but I—”

“Blew it,” Davy muttered. “Micky, what are you doing here? You should be working at Pop’s, look!”

Mike didn’t know how the Manchester Marauder kept such a straight face. All his acting experience, probably.

“And I’m getting ready for an evening with the lovely Violet,” Davy continued, patting at his turban-towelled head. “So, Mike, are you going to erm, work out a few kinks? And I’m not talking massage. Well, not a _shoulder_ rub, anyway.”

“Yeah, I might.”

Micky looked from Davy to Mike, his eyes and mouth making perfect O shapes, making Mike continue, “You know what? I think I’ll head up there now. The lunchtime crowd is pretty…interesting.”

“Oh. Fancy some afternoon delight, yeah?” Davy winked. “Well, enjoy, Oh, and suit up—d’you need rubbers?”

With an ear-splitting “ _Noooooo!_ ” Micky threw himself to the floor and wound his arms tight around Mike’s legs. “I can’t let you go and cheat on Peter! Even if I am a genius! This is all my fault!”

“Micky? What d’you mean? What’s the matter?” inquired Davy. “You had too much fizzy pop again?”

“Guys, things aren’t what you think they are.” Micky raised his head from Mike’s shoes. “Or _when_ you think they are.”

“Soda pop nothing—he’s been at the beer,” Mike said.

“Look, try to follow what I’m saying, that we’re not really here and now,” Micky begged them.

“Beer my bum—he’s been on the whacky baccy.” Davy tutted. “You been in Peter’s stash, mate?”

“No! Guys, Mike, Davy, this is real important.” Micky swung himself into a sit. “I’ve been working on an invention—”

“The love potion. We know.” Davy turned to the mirror and examined his face.

The _what_? Mike didn’t…and was glad about that.

“But it’s something incredible, fantastic, that many inventors have tried to make real and all have failed at…until now.” Micky was on his knees now. “I’ve made possible the impossible. I’ve thinked the unthinkable. I’ve—”

“Seen this?” Mike slid today’s paper from the counter and held it out in front of Micky, the front page, with its date, prominent.

“I’ve—” Micky glanced at it, did a double-take, and looked hard, then looked up. “Wait. It’s not the past?”

“Well, you’re always late, if that counts?” Mike managed, in between bursts of laughter.

“Your face!” Davy guffawed, pointing at Micky, tears streaming from his eyes. “Wish I had a camera!”

“Get Micky to reset to a few minutes ago so you can go grab one!” Mike couldn’t resist it. He swiped his old wool-hat off as Davy untwisted his turban.

“That’s _mean_!” Micky declared, his face turned down. “You’re always rubbishing my work, my projects, my ideas… And you know who doesn’t? Toby! She supports my scientific research and she’s interested in my theories and innovations. She understands me.”

Davy glanced at Mike. “And…”

“And I think she should stay here,” Micky stated, folding his arms and firming his lips into a thin line. “She’s sweet and kind.”

“Really?” Davy cracked his knuckles. “Right. Let’s sit down at the table here.” He waited until they did. “Okay. You know how she gets jealous whenever Amanda goes on about Harley, how he’s a soldier, how noble and selfless it is for him to dedicate his life to serving his country?”

“Yeahhh?”

He was right to be wary, Mike felt.

“Well, Toby wants all that cachet and reflected glory too.”

“How?” Mike asked.

“Like this.” Davy opened up Toby’s file from the table and slid the top piece of paper free.

“Recruitment forms for the army?” Mike gasped.

“Filled out for me?” Micky gasped harder.

“And as usual, she’s made one of her mock-ups of what she fondly imagines it’ll look like…” Davy showed them the photo of a young, handsome, uniformed Tank Battalion soldier.

“Isn’t that…Elvis Presley?” Mike blinked. “With curls drawn on his head and a drumkit pasted next to his Tank?”

“And look at the front of the Tank.” Davy tapped the small stuck-on picture.

“Ted! She’s put my Ted there—she sent him into the army!” Micky squealed. “He’s only little—he could get _hurt_ , Mike!”

“There, there, buddy.” Mike gave him a hug and rubbed his back.

Micky straightened, his expression hard. “That heartless little witch has got to go. It’s Plan B.”

“And it’d better not stand for Balls-Up,” Davy warned him.

“It involves hypnosis.” Micky looked at them.

“Okay.” Davy nodded.

“On Toby.”

“Okay.” Mike was on board.

“To make her think she’s married to Nyles.”

Davy’s “Okay,” hit Mike’s, “Oh, _what_?”

“Guys? Guys!” Toby bounced in, breathless with excitement and…clutching Nyles’ arm. She paused for the three of them to scream and Mike to slap Micky. “That phone call we were waiting for—it came while I was at Nyles’, and I got it!”

“Got it as in you…answered the phone?” Mike tried to understand.

“No, as in I got the _job_!” Toby jumped up and down in joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next bit is the end of this chapter, I promise!


	18. Mid January 1967: Finale

“What job?” Mike asked.

“Amanda’s old job at _Minx_! Contracted, salaried, all her terms and conditions, tons of days off, medical, dental, Luncheon Vouchers of three shillings a day, whatever those are…”

“Writing her page?” Amanda’s column had described America, mainly the West Coast, through the eyes of a stranger, a foreigner.

“Yes! They want me to report on things from my viewpoint, looking at stuff how I see it! I pitched them a few ideas I have, including this one”—Toby waved a hand around the pad—“and they said I had the most unusual way of looking at things that they’d ever come across! Like, my angle was acute, obtuse and reflex, all at the same time, and my perspective almost vertical!"

“Wh—” was as far as Mike got.

“They said there were no words to describe my take on the world around me!”

Mike could think of a few.

“Well, they did use a couple, and I’ve been looking them up…” The paper she waved at them had _jejune_ and _ingenue_ and _idiot savant_ scribbled on it.

“Is _Minx_ French?” Davy inquired.

“ _Non, pas du tout!_ ” Toby answered, then looked surprised. “And they mentioned something that gave me the title, so I wrote it down…” She showed them the other side of her paper on which was written in huge letters FLOORED GENIUS. “Only that’s a bit long, so I’m going with _floored_. Just like that, no capital letter.”

“Leave it,” Davy ordered, closing Mike’s mouth with a hand under his chin. “That’s fantastic. Tobes!”

“Yeah! So I’m a roving chronicler of cool new happenings!”

“ _Roving_?” Mike repeated, his fingers crossed.

“Uh-huh, there’s lots of traveling involved and I’m on the road right away!” Toby spun around in a circle. “To San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge for the Human Bean festival.”

“Golden Gate _Park_ , surely?” Davy said

“And Human Be-In Event?” Nyles threw in. “That started yesterday?”

“So I gotta get my things together and run!” Toby dashed for the No-Room, then dashed out again. Mike wondered what room she’d thought it was.

“So she’s going?” Micky whispered.

“Well, yeah, but it’s only kicking the can down the road a piece,” Mike cautioned.

“Who cares!” Davy nudged Micky. “Soon as she’s out the door, you can divorce her for desertion!” He tugged another hardback book from the shelf. “Here.”

“ _Every Man His Own Lawyer_?” Mike blinked at the title. “And desertion? You sure?”

“It’s either that or cruelty. And there’s plenty of proof of that—her cooking, this décor…” Davy took a bow.

“Oh, is that my Important Papers File…” Toby bent over it. “I need to check I have all my documents.” She fanned them out to put them in order. Another photo wafted across the tabletop. “Oh look, Micky, our wedding photo!”

Silence fell as they studied the picture of the happy couple, the very happy couple, feeling no pain whatsoever and…their officiant. In a very realistic-looking big monkey costume. Davy tapped the photo. “Blimey, Micky, didn’t know you had a twin brother!”

“Oh, he does, because he’s got mine now,” Toby replied. “Give me that to put with the license.”

“License…” For the first time, the bureaucracy of getting married struck Mike, all the requirements needed. He took the thick sheet of paper, the official form. Toby would have needed Micky’s ID, at least? Or maybe not… “Toby, this form… It—”

“I got it from the County Clerk branch office. Oh, and you don’t need a blood test,” she informed him. “Wish I’d known that before I went in there with my knife, but you live and learn, huh?” She showed them a scar on her palm. It was somehow, strangely, a match for the mark on her other one.

Mike was still staring at the paper, the blood draining from his face. “But it’s…it’s not…”

“Oh, man!” Nyles pointed at it. “That’s the classic rookie mistake! You got Form J-69—the marriage license is Form J-96!”

“How do you— No. Not important.” Mike focused. “But…then…what’s that? What did Toby apply for…and get?” He sat, or rather, his knees buckled and he plopped into a chair.

“Form J-69? That’s a special event permit for a parade.”

“A _parade_?” Mike echoed Nyles. “A goddamn _parade_?”

“Well, not just parade: parade, march, procession, and assembly in a public place. No outdoor dining or amplified sound, though. You need J-69d and J-69g for those, and they’re hard to get. You gotta know someone on the inside for those.” Nyles winked and tapped his nose.

“You… But the celebrant, in costume!” Mike howled. He grabbed the ‘wedding photo’. The third figure, standing between Micky and Toby, was quite clearly an actual gorilla. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—you were high as fucking kites and just barged into the enclosure, where an actual gorilla gibbered and gesticulated at you, and you thought, _you thought_ , that he was performing a _wedding_ _ceremony_?”

“But he signed the license,” said Toby, after a pause that told Mike he was right. She turned the paper over and showed Mike the back…with its brown streaks. “Well, I say _signed_. It was more like smeared. And he didn’t have a pen. So he—”

“Yeah, all right!” Mike wondered if he was hallucinating, like Micky and Toby had seemed to be. He damn well hoped he was.

“Well, that’s easy then.” Davy helped Toby gather her documents. “Just go back and give that big hairy bloke—the one that’s not Micky—a banana to annul it.”

It was when Micky replied,” We can’t—we’re banned from the primates section,” that Mike screamed.

“Oh.” Toby sat. “So…we’re not actually married?”

“No. But you can have a righteous parade to celebrate that,” Nyles said, patting her.

“What, like for our anniversary?” Toby asked Micky.

Mike screamed again.

“You don’t have anniversaries of not being married,” Davy said.

“How do you know?” Toby asked, looking a little miffed.

“He’s got a Debrett’s, man!” Nyles pointed at the thick book, respect on his face.

“Right.” Toby considered. “Right, well, I’d better go home, then, I suppose. I can’t stay here in a house with four guys if I’m not married to them. What would that look like!” She shook her head.

Mike sucked in a breath for another scream but didn’t have the energy.

“But…you’re going back to your parents, to your old room?” Micky asked.

“No. I’m grown up now, earning my own living, responsible for my own life—I’ll be renting the pool house!” Toby zipped up her bag. Or a bag. A bulging bag. “Oh, and having it made into a proper casita. Or maybe a maisonette. I haven’t decided yet. I’ll call up the building contractors, get started right away.”

“And your parents won’t mind—oh, they won’t know. Right?” Mike pitied the poor Willises, coming back from wherever they’d gone to to find their home in complete chaos. Maybe he and they should form a club. He submitted to her kissing his cheek and ruffling his hair as she left, and he’d just collapsed on the couch, debating whether or not to scream again, when Peter came in.

“Hmm.” Peter passed him a Kleenex to wipe his cheek. “Should I be mad?”

“You don’t have to be mad to live here, but— Oh, who am I kidding. You fucken do.” Mike sat up and pulled Peter down to hug him, gripping him tightly.

“You’re hoarse—got a sore throat?” Peter tipped his head to one side.

“I’ve been screaming a little,” Mike admitted.

“Oh, that kind of day. And I thought mine was strange,” Peter started, stopping when Mike laughed. “What?”

“No, nothing. Just, Micky, Davy, get over here. Help me fill Peter in.” He frowned when Micky didn’t rub his hands together, or stick his tongue out, and riff on that, saying if Mike wanted a foursome, he only had to ask, and… Kid was down. Davy had an arm around his shoulders and was passing him his Ted.

“Oh.” Peter nodded when they explained what had happened. Well, some of it. Peter didn’t need to know the bits he wouldn’t approve of. Peter tapped the ‘wedding’ photo. “Well, you can see where she got the idea, and where she went wrong with it. Where she Tobyed it.”

“Huh?” came from the three other Monkees.

“Well, people get married in a monkey suit, don’t they? So she thought—eeeep!” Peter’s explanation was cut off when Mike pulled his brilliant, intellectual and gorgeous and sexy partner flat on the couch and kissed him. A lot.

“Do you know how much I fucken love you?” he demanded.

Peter blushed. “Enough to marry me in a zoo?”

Mike shuddered. “Enough not to.” He caught sight of Micky, watching them and pretending he wasn’t. Micky had said Toby listened to him and supported him. Okay, she probably hadn’t heard a word he said and didn’t understand anything of what he was doing, but still.

“You know, we’d better go check if she’s okay,” he suggested, watching Micky’s face brighten. “Maybe take her some dinner? And Peter didn’t get to say goodbye to her.”

“Take the rest of her things.” Peter stood.

“And get ours back,” Davy added, looking at all the bare spaces where their stuff was missing.

“C’mon.” Mike finished wrapping the sub sandwich he’d made of all the decent things in the fridge—the least he could do—and grabbed a grape soda, Toby’s favorite flavor being purple, then red. He ushered the other three out and noticed the sad look Micky gave…to his car as he passed it.

“Aww, Micky, you’ll find another set of wheels,” Davy commented, voicing what Mike and seemingly Micky was thinking, that the Willises would want their bribe back. “Look, mate, all kidding apart, it’s for the best, but I know you’ll miss her.” He rubbed Micky’s shoulder.

“Yeah—” Micky stared at all the activity along the street. “Those contractors sure got here quickly, huh? Toby’s…” He stared at her directing the crew in their heavy machinery. “No!” he yelled, breaking into a run. “Toby! Stop! That one’s not your house!”

“No, it’s mine,” declared a miffed-looking young woman, a slim and attractive blonde with thickly lashed blue-green eyes and thick, heavy bangs, getting out a sports car just ahead of the moving van pulling up behind her. “What the f—”

“ _Patricia?_ ” Micky skidded to a halt and turned to her. “Hi!”

“Micky!” She pulled him into a warm hug.

“It’s one of those four birds who took the beach house along there for a couple of weeks last summer!” Davy’s chick index flipped open with a _boinnngg_. At least…that’s what Mike _hoped_ was springing up and making that noise… “You remember—we dated them for a bit after April Conquest took us all…to the cleaners.”

“Nice one,” Peter acknowledged. The look he shot Mike out of the corners of his eyes met the sly glance Mike was giving him, both of them checking to see if the other was looking around for the other three chicks. Well, two of them…

“Only got eyes for you, sugar,” Mike assured him.

“Me you,” Peter replied. “I can’t even recall Cassie’s name.” He grinned and accepted the poke in the ribs as his due punishment.

“You don’t think that’s all you’re gettin’, for that, do you?” Mike muttered, the gleam in his eye igniting a spark in Peter’s.

“Shh, I’m eavesdropping here!” Davy complained, indicating the lovebirds.

“…back?” Micky was asking, his arms still around Patricia’s waist where he’d forgotten to let go after embracing her.

“Yeah. I missed the area so much that I moved back here as soon as I could,” she answered, stroking his hair back from his face. “I love it here!”

“Yeah. Love it,” Micky replied dreamily.

“How can a first-grade teacher afford these property prices?” Mike inquired.

“I don’t think she can. But…” Peter pointed to Patricia’s left hand, cupping Micky’s hip…the hand with a new gold ring gleaming on it. “I think her husband can, though.”

“Wait.” Mike tried to get it all straight as Micky and Patricia, arms around each other’s waists, staring into each other’s eyes, walked slowly up her new driveway. He stood back for the machines and materials to make their way down it and to the next house over, where Toby actually lived, and looked from the Willises’ back toward their pad. “So Micky’s ex, who lives practically next door—”

“Not really his ex,” Peter corrected.

“True. Is living next door to his—”

“Married.”

“Ex.”

“Again, not…really his ex.”

“Next door,” Mike finished. “Oh, _brother_.”

“Oh, Micky. _Only_ Micky,” Peter corrected.

“Yeah.” Mike blew out a breath. “Well, let’s hope we don’t have any more complications and no more guests for some time, huh? Because—”

“Erm, chaps?” called a female voice from behind them. An English female voice. A familiar English female voice. “Hullo!”

“ _Amanda?_ ” gasped Mike, Peter, and Davy.

“Ta-da!” She gave a twirl, but seemed less saucy and bouncy than usual. “Erm, is Micky about? Only…I’ve sort of, well, got something to tell him.”

“ _Run!_ ” yelled Mike.

“He’s inside. He can’t hear you,” Peter replied.

“I’m not talking to him—I’m talking to you! Come on, run!” Mike grabbed his hand and pulled him into a mad sprint, as fast as they could and as far as they could.

“Where…we going?” Peter panted.

“Don’t know,” Mike gasped. “But wherever we finish up, when we can’t run anymore—”

“Will probably be just as ridiculous and packed with improbable events as Beechwood,” Peter finished, grinning.

“Yeah. And—”

“We wouldn’t have it any other way,” they confessed in unison.

Peter smiled. He held up the cheese and pickle sub and Mike clinked the grape soda into it and, in prefect understanding and glowing with their love for each other, they looked for a place to picnic. 1334 North Beechwood Drive and Toby and Amanda and Micky and Davy and even Mr. Schneider could wait, at least for a little while…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, no one liked the ending?! I'm working on the last part, the And One Time They Had Time to Themselves smut-fest, so then the fic'll be finished. Hope you'll like that...


	19. Mid July 1967

Mike glared at Peter—and Peter glared back—for a pointed second before ripping his gaze away and landing it on Micky, sitting to his right. “Could you please tell Peter that I did pick up that fancy, pricey organic milk from the farmers’ market up on Fairfax, which is, I think we’ll all agree, quite a way from Beechwood or even Santa Monica, but it’s all been drunk and that if he wanted it, he should have been quicker to the table this morning perhaps, instead of doing his yoga and his mediation and his tie-me and—”

“Tai-chi,” Peter corrected. “It’s called—”

“Peter.” Micky raised his voice to be heard down the length of the new and longer and wider kitchen/dining table from where he sat at the top near Mike, to Peter down the bottom. “Mike says—”

“I heard. I think everyone in a five-house radius did, as we and they usually do tend to hear Michael.” Peter looked up the table. “Could you pass me the container anyway, so I can see if there’s any left?” He addressed his question to Chris, his middle brother, who sat to his right, next to Davy.

“What, he don’t think I got eyes?” Mike asked of Matt, Peter’s younger brother, to Peter’s left, one down from Micky. “I got good enough eyesight to see the damn stuff on that bio-dairy stall and to pick it up. Could hardly miss it, the way that stall stinks.”

“So you smell through your eyes? My goodness!” Peter sniped.

“Pete, have orange juice on your cereal,” Micky suggested, lifting the carton. The…empty carton. “Oh.” He put it down again.

“So, what’s everyone’s plans this fine summer Saturday?” Matt asked, his expression and tone revealing no guilt at him having helped himself to the last of Peter’s expensive milk.

“Grocery shopping,” Peter replied.

Mike whistled. “That a dig at me? Because—”

“If the shopping bag fits…” Peter shrugged, digging a spoon into his bowl of cereal.

“Does your brother”—Mike asked Chris—“Always make such a loud crunching noise eating?”

“Probably when it’s cornflakes, when there’s no milk on them, yeah.” Chris nodded, wiping the orange stain from his mouth, a stain left by him having drunk most of the orange juice. “D’you think so, Matt?”

“Guess so.” Matt tipped his bowl up with both hands and drank the last of his now chocolatey milk.

“I imagine any noise sounds louder when one’s got a hangover,” Peter observed. He clanged his spoon against his bowl.

“Oh, that what you imagine, is it?” Mike demanded. Yeah, not one of his best comebacks. He gulped some coffee, trying not to grimace at how lousy it was. Was it that hard for anyone to make a decent pot? He slurped the last of it to get it drunk and into his system.

“Now, that’s loud,” Peter commented. “That’s the morning-slamming-about-the-place noise to which I was referring earlier.”

Mike banged his cup down.

“And _that’s_ the banging-about—”

“And that’s bleeding _it_!”

Davy, jumping to his feet and interrupting Peter, made Mike jump.

“Bleeding _enough_ ,” he clarified, swinging his stare from Mike to Peter and narrowing his eyes. “Answer me this: are either of you boxers or stonemasons? Well?”

“No,” Mike replied, puzzled.

“No,” Peter confirmed.

“And yet the pair of you are jabbing at each other like prize-fighters and chipping away like the other’s a block of granite!” Davy shot looks at the other three. Mike caught Matt frowning in puzzlement and Chris nudging him, Micky shrugging and Davy reaching across and cuffing him. _Hmm. Interesting._ Mike had wondered… “But before this goes any further, Peter, I need you to reach me something off a high shelf, okay?” Davy demanded.

“Sure, although Mike’s taller, as he never ceases to remind us,” Peter replied, pushing back his chair.

“You…’ve got…stronger fingers, all right?” Davy waited until Peter stood and frogmarched him into the No-Room closet. “In here.”

Mike glanced around the table. The now unoccupied table. Micky, Chris and Matt had all risen to their feet. “Oh, ya gonna clear the table and wash and dry the dishes?” he drawled. “No. Wait. That’d be the dream I had last night.”

“Mike!” Davy cried from the closet. “Quick! Peter’s fallen and can’t get up! He looks really bad!”

“What the—” Mike had sprinted to the No-Room before he registered Peter’s voice had added itself to Davy’s, denying what Davy had said, Mike rushed inside the small closet just as Davy squeezed himself out. Before Mike could react to either Davy’s sudden exit or to Peter not fallen to the floor and looking injured but standing upright on his own two feet and looking puzzled, Davy shoved him farther inside...far enough inside to slam the door behind Mike and lock it.

“—the hell?” Mike finished his question. He whirled to the door, taken aback by the sound of hammering. Small taps one after the other in a row moving upward then across then down the other side of the door.

“Guys?” called Peter, his forehead creased.

“We’re locking you in,” came Micky’s voice through the door.

“ _Nailing_ you in,” Davy corrected.

“And locking you in the pad,” Chris added.

“On your own,” Matt clarified, a little redundantly. “And we’re all going out for the day.”

“Because we love you,” shouted Micky.

“You got a fucken weird way of showing it, ya fucken weirdo!” Mike left off tugging the handle, which wasn’t moving, with the door having been locked from the outside, and started shoulder charging the door itself instead. That didn’t budge either, what with having been…nailed shut.

“And we want you to sort this thing out. Whatever _it_ is,” Davy added. “Just think yourselves lucky – you haven’t been drugged this time. We’ll be back this evening.”

“It’s for your own good.” Chris sounded nervous.

“Yeah, and with the ceremony being planned…” Matt sounded more so. He didn’t need to complete his sentence, that they were all panicking the celebration might be called off. And that would put paid to the stag night, the part their summer guests were looking forward to the most.

“Get back here!” Mike shouted, his ear pressed to the wood. He heard shuffling and then the front door being closed and locked. He turned to Peter—

“Finally!” Peter lunged for him.

“Never thought we’d get any alone time ever again!” Mike lunged back. The pad had been even more nonstop commotion, craziness, chaos—

“Tumult, turbulence, _terror_ ,” Peter added,

—than usual this July, with the younger Thorkelsons fitting right into the riot, racket and ruckus that normally swirled around the Manchester Marauder and the Los Angeles Lunatic in an ear-splitting din from morning till night. Fitting in and _adding to_. Mike shuddered and pushed all other thoughts aside. He grabbed for Peter’s ass, yanking him close. Not that they could be very far apart in this closed space, but… “Desperate times called for desperate measures.”

“Desperate pleasures, did you say?”

Mike stopped Peter’s wisecracking by fusing his mouth to his sugar’s, the kiss he laid on him as desperate as any measure or pleasure or leisure or— He let Peter pull away with a gasp, to breathe. “And Davy, not Micky,” he commented, sweeping his fingertip down his darlin’s tip-tilted nose. “That’s a buck you owe me.”

“Umm.” Peter pressed tight to him. “Well, the buck…starts here.” He thrust his hips into Mike as he looped his arms around his neck and pulled him close. Mike groaned at the awful joke and at the feel of Peter’s crotch grinding into his.

“So.” Peter smiled against Mike’s lips, making them curve too. He giggled when Mike flicked out his tongue tip to lick, wanting to take Peter’s taste, well, the morning-spearmint-and-aniseed-tea version of it, for his own. “Let’s make noise?”

Having to keep the noise down had been difficult too. “Yeah, ya do get vocal,” Mike commented, crossing his arms around Peter’s back and feeling his exhaled _tsk_ against his mouth. “Yeah, not fair—it’s me…who makes ya holler and scream. My fault.”

The twist to Peter’s lips said _ha-ha_ , and Mike made amends by running his nose down Peter’s, into his philtrum. Something occurred to him. “Wait. When you were being bratty back there, were you really saying I’m grouchy in the morning? And I should lay off the beer?”

“And were you complaining about the expense of having two more mouths to feed?” Peter flashed back. “Oh, and saying our guests do nothing but eat all the food?”

“Pleading the Fifth on that one and venturin’ a guess as to why you were being a brat, acting out like that…when you know what happens if you do,” Mike replied, letting the complicity in his words paint a shared picture—and the promise and heat in his hooded-eyed gaze build and bank.

Their shared arousal spiked quickly, filling the long but narrow, jumbled-full space they were locked in. Well, it wasn’t packed so full that Mike couldn’t mold Peter to him tighter still and walk him backward until he hit the wall with a _wump_. He gave a tiny nip at Mike’s lower lip in retaliation, making Mike spear his hands into Peter’s temples, a dual-purpose move that meant he could bury his fingers in the delicious silk of Peter’s hair _and_ hold him perfectly positioned to kiss, hard and hungrily.

“Oh, you’re in charge, are you?” Peter commented when Mike let him up for air.

“Sure looks that way, sugar.” Mike didn’t think Peter minded. At least, he wasn’t stopping Mike yanking his shirt free of his pants to run his hands up Peter’s warm, toned sides, not even when Mike’s thumbs over his lower belly made his skin quiver. In fact he helped, undoing his buttons and parting the fabric of his shirt for Mike to walk his fingers through Peter’s chest hair until he found a nipple and gave it a quick twist. It hardened even as Peter gasped his shock at the sudden move, and both things got Mike revved. He pressed into Peter to let him feel how Mike’s thickening cock was pushing at his fly—and met Peter’s answering hardness.

“Gotta see you.” Mike made his meaning plain by smoothing Peter’s shirt from his shoulders then diving for his fly button. Peter was barefoot…and underwear free, so when Mike pulled his jeans undone and down and off, Peter was naked. And erect. He straightened after Mike had finished and his shoulder knocked into the row of clothes next to him. Clothes…and costumes. Peter raised a hand to the gray faux-chain mail tunic he’d nudged.

“No.”

“No?” Peter echoed Mike.

“Not right now.” Mike shifted, the memories increasing the blood flow to his cock. “Sure, it’s a trip when you’re a personal—”

“Peasant.”

“ _Slave_ to the whims and desires of your master…” He continued before Peter could add any, “What, more than usual?” snark. “And that you need punishing for being bratty…”

“But?”

“But I’m too desperate for playacting,” Mike admitted, and Peter’s smirk at the confession made that button mole of his dance above his lip.

“Guessed that by the way you’re staring me like a starving man eyeing a juicy steak,” he commented.

“Oh, you’re juicy.” Mike cupped his balls, making him shiver. “And yeah, I’m probably drooling. And you need to lie down.”

“To— Huh!” Peter squeezed out of the way as Mike used a foot to push boxes and bags against the side walls to clear a central space, then nudged a thin, camouflaged upright mattress away from the end wall to fall flat onto the floor…and straightened the sheet on it once it landed. Yeah, he’d prepared. More than Peter knew… A hand at Peter’s hip had him on the bed and lying down.

Mike had said he was drooling and now it was Peter’s turn to slaver when Mike unbuttoned his shirt, slowly, and slipped it off, still slowly and turning at the waist so his chest caught the glow of the light bulbs set high in the wall, just below the ceiling. He knew how much Peter grooved on Mike being so furry and Peter loved that how much he dug Mike’s pelt had turned Mike from self-conscious of it to showing it off.

He showed his appreciation for the striptease now by crossing his legs at the ankles and folding one arm under his head. His other arm he left at his side, his fingers splayed around one hip…close and ready to toy with his dick, relishing how Mike’s intense gaze followed his slightest movement. When Mike licked his lips, Peter’s cock flexed.

Mike flicked open his fly button and lowered his zip a half-inch…but left his jeans on. Well, Peter didn’t see that as being a problem—the way Mike lowered to his hands and knees and crawled up the mattress was sexy enough. _For the moment._ Then there was no time for assessing, only for feeling, because Mike eased on top of him, tangling his long legs with Peter’s and sliding a strong hand up the back of Peter’s neck to capture his mouth.

Mike could kiss, the sweeps of his tongue caressing, cajoling…then commanding, sensuous and subduing, delicious and dominating. And distracting—Peter only belatedly realized Mike had lined their cocks up and hissed through his teeth when Mike’s denim-covered crotch ground against his dick. He made no attempt to hold in his deep, guttural groan. Mike loved how vocal he got during sex.

Mike’s lips were tilted in a half-smile. “Yeah, planning on makin’ ya moan a whole lot more,” he husked, putting space between their bodies to reach for Peter’s dick. He stroked it for a second, and Peter would have whined when he took his hand away…if Mike hadn’t crawled backward down the mattress in one swift movement…to replace his hand with his mouth.

“ _Jesus!_ ” Peter gritted out, grabbing for Mike’s head and clawing his fingers into his thick waves of dark hair. A second later, Peter’s eyes were narrowing in suspicion when Mike, after gifting him one tight, hot suck, dragged the flat of his tongue up his cock to give the tip a long, slow lick before pulling free.

“Getting you ready.” He answered Peter’s unvoiced question.

“For…?” Peter didn’t know what to make of that gleam in Mike’s eyes. Visible even in the room’s muted lighting, it didn’t soften the intensity of Mike’s gaze one bit.

“I’ll show you. No—stay lying down and raise your arms so they’re by your head…”

Peter couldn’t see exactly how the two short leather straps, one either side of his head, were fastened to the wall, and he didn’t exactly understand that the straps finished in Velcro cuffs…until Mike fastened one around each of his wrists. He pulled experimentally. The cuffs weren’t very tight and he could twist his hands around in them, but they was secure, meaning he couldn’t wriggle or tug free.

The glint in Mike’s eyes was sharper and brighter now. He ran a hand down Peter’s body from one bound wrist down his arm, tugging at the silky hair in the hollow under it, scored his thumb nail over the nipple then dragged his fingertips down Peter’s chest, stomach, hip and leg, without stopping at any of the good stuff, to his ankle, which he lifted to spread Peter’s legs.

Peter understood just a second before Mike pulled a short strap from the wall at the side of the mattress and fastened that around his ankle. A heartbeat later, he’d done the same to the left side too. These seemed shorter—at least, Peter couldn’t bring his legs together. He felt exposed, laid out for Mike like this…and the way Mike, kneeling between his spread legs, watched him and licked his lips made Peter’s cock throb and pre-cum release.

“Prettiest picture I ever did see,” Mike crooned.

“Hope you’re gonna do more than just see,” Peter managed, fighting not to hump the air like a dog in heat.

“Hope you’re gonna do more than just talk. Oh, wait. Know ya are.” Mike tilted his head and gave him a slanted smile before bending low to Peter’s cock again, rubbing his morning whiskers along the tender inside of Peter’s thigh before taking his cock deep, his mouth almost silky in comparison to the rough scrape of his stubbled chin. Peter tried to bring his legs together, to hold Mike to him, but he couldn’t, any more than he could twist his fingers into Mike’s hair to guide him deeper or make him back off. He was at Mike’s mercy…and knew it just as much as Mike did.

Mike’s hands snaking around to Peter’s ass encouraged him to thrust, though, and he did, nudging his dick into the back of Mike’s throat, the constriction and heat making fine tremors start to ripple under Peter’s skin, for several heart-jolting seconds before Mike pulled off with a pop, wiping at the strings of saliva connecting his mouth to Peter’s tip.

“Almost forgot,” he rasped, standing to slide off his jeans…carefully. He was huge, the head of his dick swollen and glistening, but Peter knew Mike had the self-control—or self-denial, he’d never worked out which—to ignore the urgent demand of his body, while he saw to his partner. _To Peter._ Seeing Peter watching him, Mike gave his own dick a couple of quick tugs, working it from root to tip, twisting over the head, and was back on his knees before Peter had fully appreciated the sight.

He appreciated the sensation, though, when Mike dipped his head again and licked the length of his shaft, rasping his tongue into the ridge just under the head that made Peter moan, then licking up and into the slit, to make him cry out. Mike giving head, his plush lips stretched wide around a dick, was the trippiest sight ever, but Peter couldn’t hold his neck up enough to see it properly.

“Oh…” And Mike was gone, on his feet and stretching to scoop something off a high shelf. A small plastic square— An inflatable beach pillow, Peter saw, when Mike took the stopper between his lips and teeth to get air into the small cushion. He made short work of it and was soon pushing on the cap.

“One of your quickest blow jobs ever?” Peter couldn’t resist it.

Mike grinned crookedly as he slid the pillow under Peter’s neck. “Tryin’ to provoke me into giving you a long one? You’ll get what you’re given, boy.”

Before Peter could riff on that, Mike was in place again, sucking softly on his length this time and working the head of Peter’s dick with short, feathery strokes of his tongue. It was when he hummed that Peter really tested the strength of the bindings holding him, because the vibrations around his shaft sent lightning bolts of pleasure all the way down his legs to his toes. The cuffs and straps held tight and had little slack, meaning all Peter could do was squirm, helpless under whatever Mike chose to do to him.

Mike paused a little, fumbling for something off the edge of the mattress, and that and the way he held eye contact almost warned Peter—but he still arched as high as he could when Mike, still keeping up an almost-gentle, too-sweet pressure around his cock, stroked a slow, delicate lubed finger around his hole…then pushed two fingers in hard and deep.

“You fucken love gettin’ fingered,” Mike breathed, against the tip of Peter’s dick and it took Peter a second to realize Mike was quoting his own words back at him, words he’d said their first time together.

He wheezed some incomprehensible reply, twisting when Mike pulled out and thrust back in again, nailing Peter’s prostate dead on and pushing the air from his lungs. He did it again, rubbing almost torturous pressure on the gland and sending scorching heat to every extremity of Peter’s body, splayed out as it was for Mike. By Mike. Peter moaned, louder and longer than he’d been able to all month, and his legs jerked in their restraints. He wanted to hold on, to last—not as long as Mike; that would have been impossible for Peter—but long enough to appreciate everything Mike was subjecting him to, but Peter couldn’t.

Not when Mike left off his gentle, sweet sucking on Peter’s head and swallowed his entire engorged length, deep-throating him like no one Peter had been with before had done so well, so perfectly—then pulled off to kneel astride Peter’s hips.

“Need to see you,” Mike murmured, switching his mouth for his hand and jacking Peter. The fingers of one hand tight about him, a patch of hard skin on Mike’s index finger putting rough pressure on that band just below the head of his cock, and the fingers of Mike’s other hand deep inside him, rubbing on his gland—it left Peter writhing, a puppet Mike controlled.

He came hard and fast, the breath torn from his body that curved into as high an arc as the restraints would permit. Mike’s hands were relentless, wringing every last drop of cum from him, intense and overwhelming, making Peter’s head spin. He sagged back onto the mattress, his limbs no longer fighting the bindings keeping him prisoner, and when Mike showed mercy and stopped working him, Peter’s lungs and chest re-started, so he could gulp in air.

He must have closed his eyes because he had to open them to see Mike—he wanted to, to know if he wore a smug look, at having brought him off so expertly, so easily, but the look on Mike’s face was almost…reverential, was the nearest a sex-addled Peter could get to a description.

“Look at you now, all fucked out.” Mike’s voice was just above a whisper and his gaze was drawn to the streaks of Peter’s release on his chest. He leaned forward to rub the still-warm, still-thick cum in. “My dirty little angel. More beautiful still.”

Peter shook his damp hair from his eyes and raised his head to look, as Mike had directed…and stared at his reflection, in the square of looking-glass Mike held. His lips parted at the sight, the mix of changed colors—his sweat-darkened hair, his flushed skin, the pearlescent sheen of his torso—and the stark black straps holding him down.

Murmuring more praise and compliments, Mike replaced the mirror against the wall and tore the Velcro cuffs on Peter’s ankles loose, releasing Peter’s legs. “Leaving those.” He jerked his chin at Peter’s hands. “Like you at my mercy when I fuck you.”

“So why free my legs?” Not that Peter was objecting. He stretched out the muscles and was glad Mike was rubbing them.

“Oh, well, I like how you wrap them around them when I’m nailing you hard,” Mike admitted, an almost shy look flickering on his face for a second before he flicked it away. “And this is gonna be hard.” _Okay?_ His pause and gaze said. Peter nodded, using his tongue to moisten his dry lips. _Very okay._

“Flip over.”

Peter found he could, with the restraints on, and be pulled into position, his hips raised.

“Not gonna screw you like this, but I do so like that fine ass of yours,” Mike told him, right in his ear from where he was on top of him.

Mike felt massive behind him like that, his heavy balls slapping against Peter’s flesh and his erect cock, wet at the tip, rutting along the crack of Peter’s ass. Peter wondered if despite what Mike had said, he was going to penetrate him in this position, and so gave a tiny, almost-didn’t-do-anything thrust back against him when his cock was level with Peter’s hole.

With a breathed, “ _Cheeky!_ ” Mike eased away…enough to deliver a ringing slap to Peter’s ass. “I was gonna loosen you up, work you open, get you nice and ready for me. But you, ya eager little slut, ya want me to fuck you open, huh?”

Peter moaned a little at the dirty talk. That was another thing Mike did so well, pushing all his buttons, including ones he hadn’t known he possessed, until Mike. Mike gave the lightest stroke around Peter’s whorls, the coolness telling Peter he was smoothing lube on. A little. Not too much.

“You’re gonna be tight for me,” Mike whispered, a dark, breathy promise in Peter’s ear.

Was he? They’d had penetrative sex the other morning, but going easy, with Mike holding Peter clasped to him, his back to him, taking him on first waking, sleepy and soft. Well, maybe _soft_ wasn’t the correct adjective. Slow, maybe, Mike easing in and staying deep, giving just the tiniest thrusts of his hip. He’d added more lube twice, to both his cock and Peter’s so Mike could jack him, long and slow too.

Until the clatters and bangs and even whizzes from the den below had become shouts and shrieks, and urgent, clanging footsteps up the spiral staircase had become a panicked knocking on the—carefully locked—door. Then Mike had brought them both off quickly to go deal with the chaos of the day. Realizing then they needed some time to themselves had led to this ruse to get it.

“’S’the yoga,” Peter replied on a moan when he was flipped over and his legs and hips positioned for Mike to forge inside him, both of them groaning as he did so. Mike inched his hips back and pushed forward, burying himself deeper in Peter’s tight heat. When he did it again, he moved faster and adjusted the angle of his penetration to slide hard over the spot inside Peter he’d already stimulated earlier with his clever fingers.

Mike had told Peter the truth earlier—he’d promised to always do that—he did need to see Peter’s face when he fucked him. As much as he loved Peter’s sexy ass—that was no lie, either—he wanted to watch his darlin’s face as he came again, his mussed bangs sticking to his sweaty forehead that wrinkled when his beautiful brown eyes screwed shut, and his reddened lips opened on a guttural groan in counterpoint to his closed eyes.

He was close himself, but he forced himself to hold on, loving how Peter’s moans changed pitch and how his body tensed and undulated, his ass tightening around Mike’s cock and his arms almost wrenching the straps that bound him from the wall. Peter finally shouted, something incomprehensible, although Mike thought he caught his name in there somewhere, and his whole body shook.

Mike pulled out of Peter the second his muscles released their grip on him enough that he could. He fisted his cock with a force and speed to match the climax that was powering through him, because he wanted to come not inside but on Peter, mingling his release with Peter’s earlier one, painting Peter in both of them. And Peter’s cry of surprise as Mike did so was _glorious_.

As soon as he could, Mike got a hand to Peter’s cuffs, unfastening the bonds one after the other, and Peter surprised him by running a hand over the globs of Mike’s cum on his chest, smearing it in.

“Even dirtier now,” he said, his voice shaky and his chest heaving.

“Huh, yeah. And prettier still,” Mike couldn’t help replying, gulping in air to do so. He slumped down next to Peter, who pushed himself over to make room for them both to bask in the afterglow, hands clasped. With the parts of his brain that were starting up again, he tried, as he always did, to conceptualize how their togetherness, their closeness, what they shared—during sex, especially—made things fall into their places. Things being _life_ , he thought, trying to fathom it. No, being MichaelandPeter. Or maybe _that_ was the foundation for all the rest to fall into place on. But then wasn’t that the same as their closeness, their, well, _them_ ness? It was all one?

Giving up, he went for one thing he did know and was sure about, giving Peter’s hand a short, then a long, then two further short squeezes, the same rhythm, or letter he’d tap out in public, on a table, say, for Peter to give the next letter—

Peter squeezed back in three pulses, two quick and one longer, completing their secret code, another way they’d devised to express their feelings for the other in public.

“Wow.” Peter eventually said, laughter in his tone. The face he turned to Mike was lit from within and a smile forming. Mike’s heart lightened. He’d done that, out that there. Peter gave a half-sigh. “Wish this No-Room had an en-suite.”

“Well, how about the next best thing?” Mike hated to leave Peter’s warmth, but he was back quickly, having retrieved the roll of wet tissues he’d stashed under a section of floorboard near the far wall. He cleaned Peter then himself, accepting his sugar’s kiss in thanks. The closet they were in didn’t usually contain personal clothes such as boxers, but Mike found some for them both. As much as he preferred Peter nude, the small room had a chill.

Peter laughed again. “It’s so trippy that you knew this would be the place they imprisoned us. And have you seen what’s up there on the high shelf Davy ‘couldn’t reach’?” He pointed at the repurposed glass bottle of water, two apples and a half-packet of crackers left as their sustenance while they ‘worked things out’. “Now, why do I think you can do better?”

“Hmm.” Mike returned to his cache. “Funny you were the Eagle Scout and I’m the one prepared…”

Peter joined him to peer into the hollowed-out space Mike was using as his latest hiding place for his fabled hot sauce from back home and the emergency bottle of whiskey, along with—

“Dope!” Peter pounced on the baggie. “And snack food—oh, my favorite chips and candy!”

“And drinks.” Mike showed him the sodas and beers.

“And reading material…” Peter examined the book and magazines, and found the notebooks and pencils under them. “How long did you imagine we’d be stuck in here?”

“Oh, at least until that pack of demons we’re living with finishes devising some new torment connected to the big day.”

“It’s getting a little out of hand, yeah.” Peter shot him a quick glance. “Are you hating it all very much?”

“Now, how could I, babe, when it’s our handfasting you’re talking about?” Mike replied. He gave a rueful grin. “Could’a done without _all_ the hoopla, yeah, but you know what they say—”

“Deal with Monkees, get a circus.” Peter nodded and took a cola. Mike opened it for him.

“Talking of…” Mike leaned against the wall and opened his notebook.

“Work on our vows?” Peter took up his book and settled down too. After a minute, he giggled. “Mine rhyme.”

Mike took a peek at what Peter was writing. “Oh, merciful heavens. They’re so poetic! So beautiful.” He covered the page when Peter tried to read his. “No, babe! They’re not as high-falutin’ as yours!”

“Michael…” Peter looked up from Mike’s chicken scratch writing. “This…”

“It’s a list of all the things I love about you, yeah.” Mike blushed. “I only just started it. Ain’t finished.”

“It’s…it’s a listing of my body parts!”

“My _favorite_ body parts,” Mike corrected. “And what I like about ’em.”

“And what you like me to do with them—”

“And what I like to do _to_ ’em, yep.”

Peter covered the writing. “You can’t say that in public!”

“Why not? It’s the truth and you know it.”

“I do,” Peter admitted. “I do.”

His echo was slower, more meaningful, and Mike matched its portentousness when he vowed, “I do too.” He wished things were that simple.

“As simple as the promise ceremony in January.”

“Yeah.” Just them, on the sundeck at sunset, exchanging their pledges. That had been beautiful and heartfelt.

“Here.” Peter leaned down to tap on the floorboard, the short, short to make _I_.

Mike supplied the short, long, short, short of _L_ , and they both tapped the short, short, long of _U_.

“As simple as that.” Mike wiped a tear from Peter’s eye.

“It really is.” Peter reached to dab at Mike’s eyes too, then kissed him, and Mike kissed him back, and their attempts at writing were forgotten…just as they forgot to tidy their food and drink and makeshift bed away before the others came back to let them out…

And if it led to an impromptu Monkee pile, this one with two extra temporary honorary Monkees, well, Mike could hardly complain. Life at the pad was like that and he was used to it. Which isn’t to say he wasn’t looking forward to getting Peter all to himself on their honeymoon…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY finished! We got there in the end. Did the last bits live up?? Comments always welcome. 
> 
> And any ideas or requests for another fic - always supposing anyone wants one - send 'em along as Idk what to write next...


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